UBRARY 


THE 


' 


'Take  this  s-weet  flcrwer,  and  let  its  leaves 
Be8ide  thy  Heart  be  cherished  near — 

Wh.il e  that  confiding  heart  receives 

The  thought  it  -whispers  to  thine  eta." 


NEW  YORK: 
LEAYITT     A  £T  D     ALLEN, 


879    BROADWAY. 


KMH 

THE  BARON'S  TOW.  BY  Miss  POWER.  -  -9 

THE  SISTERS  OF  ALBANO.  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  FRANKENSTEIN.  -  19 
FLORENCE  HOWARD;  OR,  TWO  DAYS  IN  A  LIFE.  BY  MBS. 

WALKER.  --..._.  ....40 

THE  TRIAL  OF  HUSBANDS.  58 

PARTED  FOR  EVER.  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  HYDE  NUGBNT.  -  -  86 
THE  FIRST-BORN.  BY  J.  FORBES  DALTON,  Esq.  -  -  -  -  94 
THE  WIDOW'S  SONG.  BY  T.  K.  HERVEY,  ESQ.  -  -  -  -  98 
THE  HERMIT  AND  THE  PITCHER.  BY  MRS.  ST.  SIMON.  -  101 

THE  RETIRED  MERCHANT. -  103 

MORNING.  BY  Miss  PHOEBE  CAREY.  ....  -  107 

THE  DESOLATION  OF  YTCHTENE.  A  REMARKABLE  PASSAGE  m 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY.  ........  109 

ADDRESS  TO  NIGHT.  BY  L.  C.  LEVIN. 120 

AN  EVENING  AT  HOME.  BY  KATE  SUTHERLAND.  -  .  121 

THE  WIDOW'S  MITE. 129 

THE  FIRST  ORATION. -  180 

WHY  DONT  HE  COME!  -  -  ...  133 


Tl  CONTENTS. 

MM 

BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS.     FROM  Miss  BREMER.        -        -        -        -  134 

REMEMBEREST  THOU  MR     BY  WM.  H.  CARPENTER.  -        -      141 

VISIT  TO  FATHER  MATHEW.     BY  COL.  WM.  SHERBURNE.        -        -  142 

REMEMBRANCE. 145 

POETRY  OF  MR.  HAYNES  BAYLY. 146 

THE  THREE  ORPHANS.     BY  Miss  EMMA  HEMPLE.  157 

FAREWELL.  158 

JOHN  BICKER,  THE  DRY  DOMINIE  OF  KLLWOODY.  -  -  159 
THE  WIDOW  TO  THE  BRIDE  BY  MABY  N.  MEWS.  -  -  -  186 
THE  HUNGARIAN  WIFE.  BY  MRS.  M  E.  HEWITT.  -  -  -  188 
THE  BURIAL  AT  SEA.  BY  RET.  THEO.  LEDYARD  CUYLER.  -  -  189 

NEVER  GIVE  UP. 197 

THE  WILD- WOOD  FLOWER.     BY  MRS.  MARY  ARTHUR.     -        -        -  198 

MY  OWN  FIRESIDE. 199 

THE  CHRISTMAS  PARTY.  BY  KATE  SUTHERLAND  -  -  -  -  200 
THE  STRAWBERRY  GIRL ;  OR,  THE  OLD  POCKET  PISTOL. 

BY  BRO.  PRINCE. 213 

THE  AUTHOR'S  BENEFIT.     BY  B.  B  BLANK,  GENTLEMAN  DE  JUBB.     285 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  POLISH  EXILE, FBONTISPIBOB. 

PRESENTATION  PLATE, BEFORE  TJTLB. 

THE  SISTERS, 19 

PARTED  FOR  EVER, 86 

WINTER,        -  134 

DEATH, 189 


BY  MISS  POWER. 

IN  one  of  the  finest  and  most  ancient  castles  on  the  banks 
of  the  Rhine,  dwelt  the  Baron  von  Leyden.  The  chateau, 
together  with  a  considerable  portion  of  the  surrounding 
country,  had  descended  to  him  from  a  long  line  of  ances- 
tors, whose  services  with  the  sword  had  rendered  their 
names  celebrated  in  the  annals  of  many  ages ;  but  the 
descent  in  the  instance  of  the  present  baron  had  not  been 
direct  from  father  to  son.  He  was  the  younger  of  two 
brothers,  by  about  ten  years  ;  and  when,  during  the  life  of 
their  father,  Alberic,  the  senior,  had,  at  the  age  of  five  and 
twenty,  gone  off  to  foreign  wars,  his  brother,  then  just  fif- 
teen, had  so  urgently  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  accompany 
him,  that  at  last  the  baron  reluctantly  yielded  his  consent, 
and  the  brothers  departed  together. 

In  due  course  of  time,  the  good  old  Baron  von  Leyden 
finished  his  mortal  career ;  and  his  son,  Alberic,  who  was 
1* 


10  THE  BABON'S  vow. 


still  in  foreign  lands,  was  declared  heir  to  all  his  estates. 
News  had  arrived  at  the  castle,  some  months  before  this 
event,  that  the  young  Alberic  had  taken  to  himself  a  wife, 
of  the  dark-eyed  maids  of  Italy  ;  but  since  then  no  intelli- 
gence had  been  received  of  either  of  the  brothers,  and  it 
was  not  even  known  whither  the  fortunes  of  war  had  taken 
them.  At  length  came  accounts,  stating  that  Alberic  had 
fallen  by  an  unknown  hand,  and  that  his  young  wife,  on 
receiving  the  news  of  his  death,  had  perished  in  giving 
birth  to  a  child,  who  had  only  survived  the  mother  a  few 
hours.  Rupert,  the  younger  brother,  who  had  now  attained 
the  age  of  four-and-twenty,  was  therefore  the  undisputed 
possessor  of  the  Castle  von  Leyden,  and  his  return  to  his 
paternal  domain  was  daily  expected.  But  years  passd  by, 
and  the  Baron  von  Leyden  came  not  to  claim  his  property  : 
foreign  lands  seemed  to  have  given  him  a  distaste  to  his 
own  ;  and  his  tenants  and  retainers  murmured  at  being 
thus  neglected,  and  obliged  to  continue  in  listless  idleness, 
while  the  lord  who  ought  to  have  led  them,  protected  them, 
and  administered  even-handed  justice  and  rule  over  them, 
spent  in  far  countries  the  substance  their  labor  procured 
for  him. 

But  he  came  at  last,  and  great  were  the  rejoicings  that 
hailed  his  arrival.  Twenty  years  had  passed  since  he  had 
last  crossed  the  threshold  of  his  father's  hall,  and  none 
could  have  recognized  in  the  dark,  swarthy,  military-look- 
ing man,  the  joyous,  light-hearted,  fair-haired  stripling, 
whose  merry  laugh  and  bounding  step  had  shed  mirth 
through  the  gloomy  castle,  and  brought  smiles  to  the  stern 
lip  of  many  an  ancient  warrior  ;  for  Rupert's  frank  and 
generous  temper,  warm  heart,  and  high  spirit,  made  him 


THE  BARON'S  vow.  11 


the  darling  of  every  inmate  of  the  castle  ;  while  Alberic^ 
whose  disposition  was  haughty  and  somewhat  passionate 
and  overbearing,  was  more  feared  and  less  loved  than  his 
younger  brother. 

But  years  had  wrought  even  more  than  their  accustomed 
changes  in  the  Baron  von  Leyden  ;  all  the  gayety  of 
former  days  had  fled,  and  was  replaced  by  a  sort  of  hardy 
recklessness  of  manner,  only  varied  by  occasional  fits  of 
gloom  :  but  his  actions  were  most  commendable  ;  his  char- 
ities unbounded.  Possessed  of  great  wealth,  much  of 
which  he  had  acquired  abroad,  he  had  the  means  as  well 
as  the  power  to  do  good ;  and  two  days  of  every  week  was 
the  great  hall  of  the  castle  thrown  open  for  the  reception 
of  the  poor,  the  aged,  the  pilgrim,  and  the  traveller : 
here  they  rested,  and  were  provided  with  a  substantial 
meal ;  while  the  baron  himself,  declaring  that  he  had  taken 
an  oath  to  that  effect,  always  placed  the  first  dish  on  the 
table,  and  invited  his  poor  guests  to  sit  down  to  the  repast. 

Winter  had  set  in  ;  out  of  doors,  cold  reigned  supreme  : 
biting  blasts — glittering  icicles — snow,  rendered  crisp  and 
dry  by  intense  frost — congealed  rivers — "  motionless  cata- 
racts," proclaimed  hoary  winter's  sovereignty  ;  while  within 
castle  hall  and  peasant's  cot,  the  blarzing  hearth  or  tile  stove 
seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  his  power.  A  large  party  of 
wanderers  from  many  quarters  were  collected  within  the 
hall  of  the  Castle  von  Leyden  ;  near  the  fire  were  seated 
some  of  those  who  had  arrived  the  latest,  and  who  had  not 
yet  entirely  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  intense  cold  : 
among  these  were  two  persons  who  had  entered  the  castle 
together,  and  who  were  evidently  fellow-travellers.  The 
one  was  an  old  hoary-headed  man,  on  whose  wrinkled  brow 


12  THE  BARON'S  vow. 


time  and  grief  had  traced  many  a  furrow ;  the  other,  a 
young  woman,  who,  though  fatigue  and  sorrow  had  done 
much  to  efface  the  lines  of  beauty,  still  evidently  possessed 
charms,  that  in  happier  circumstances  might  excite  no 
common  degree  of  admiration.  In  her  arms  was  an  infant, 
of  some  ten  or  twelve  months'  old  ;  and  on  this  child,  the  eye 
of  the  young  mother  rested  with  an  expression  of  anxious 
love  and  care  that  no  weariness  nor  suffering  could  destroy  ; 
and,  when  comforted  by  the  genial  heat,  and  soothed  by  the 
soft  voice  of  its  youthful  parent,  it  gradually  sunk  into  a 
k  peaceful  slumber,  she  smiled  through  her  grief,  and,  ad- 
dressing the  old  man,  whom  she  caRed  father,  in  Italian, 
directed  his  attention  to  the  sleeping  babe. 

Soon  there  was  a  stir  in  the  hall,  and  many  a  hungry 
glance  was  directed  to  the  door,  as  the  Baron  von  Leyden, 
bearing  a  vast  dish  containing  a  formidable  piece  de  resis- 
tance entered,  followed  by  three  or  four  servitors  similarly 
laden.  Placing  his  burden  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the 
baron  invited  the  hungry  travellers  to  sit  down  to  their 
repast,  a  request  which  it  was  by  no  means  necessary  to 
repeat ;  but  as  the  old  man  led  her  he  cabled  daughter  to 
the  table,  the  baron,  starting  suddenly,  and  gazing  for  a 
moment  with  looks  of  astonishment  and  anxiety,  hastily 
turned  and  left  the  hall. 

Meantime  the  guests  did  ample  justice  to  the  substan- 
tial fare  placed  before  them  ;  the  health  of  thn  baron  was 
drank  with  many  a  joyous  repetition,  and  cold,  hunger,  and 
fatigue,  were  for  the  moment  forgotten  by  the  greater 
number  of  the  party. 

The  repast  was  nearly  concluded,  when  a  message  ar- 
rived, requesting  the  attendance  of  the  old  man  &.n?  his 


THE  BAUON'S  vow.  13 


daughter  in  the  baron's  closet.  They  instantly  proceeded  to 
obey  the  summons,  the  page  leading  the  way :  arrived  in 
the  room,  the  baron  hastily  rose  from  his  seat,  and,  addressing 
the  old  man,  said  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  him  for  a  short 
time  alone,  and  begged  that  his  daughter  (he  pronounced 
the  word  inquiringly)  would  leave  them  for  a  few  moments  ; 
she  was  accordingly  shown  into  an  adjoining  apartment, 
and  they  were  left  together. 

There  was  a  pause  for  some  instants  :  at  length  the 
baron,  advancing  to  where  the  old  man  stood,  threw  off  his 
hut,  and  turning  full  to  the  light,  addressed  him  in  a  voice 
of  suppressed  agitation,  "  Do  you  know  me  now,  Pietro  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Santa  Maria  !  "  exclaimed  the  venerable  man,  start- 
ing back  in  amazement,  "  it  is — it  must  be — Signor  Ku- 
pert !  At  last  have  I  found  you  !  Now  no  more  will  my 
Agatha  be  a  houseless  wanderer !  no  more  will  pain  and 
hunger  and  fatigue  gnaw  away  her  young  life  !  Now  I 
may  die — die  happy  and  contented,  that  she  has  found  a 
home  !  "  and  old  Pietro  fell  on  his  knees,  and  wept  like  a 
child.  The  baron  gently  raised  him,  and  desiring  him  to 
be  seated,  proceeded  to  ask  him  a  train  of  questions,  which 
led  to  an  explanation. 

But  ere  he  begins,  we  must  also  explain,  in  a  few 
words,  some  of  the  preceding  events.  The  wife  of  Pietro 
had  been  the  favorite  attendant  of  the  Lady  Teresa,  the 
bride  of  Alberic  von  Leyden  :  she  had  reared  her  from  child- 
hood, and  when  her  lady  married,  had,  with  Pietro,  her 
husband,  continued  in  the  service  of  the  young  couple,  and 
had  followed  their  fortunes  to  the  last. 

For  a  year  all  went  on  smoothly  and  happily.     Alberic 


14  THE  BARON'S  vow. 

and  his  bride  were  devotedly  attached  to  each  other,  and 
young  Rupert  seemed  to  love  his  brother's  wife  as  warmly 
and  sincerely  as  he  would  have  done  his  own  sister  ;  while 
she  regarded  him  in  every  respect  as  a  brother. 

The  three  were  in  the  frequent  habit  of  wandering 
about  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  place  where  they  lived, 
either  on  foot  or  on  horseback  ;  but  latterly  Teresa  had 
been  compelled  to  give  up  these  excursions,  as  she  expected 
shortly  to  become  a  mother  ;  and  the  brothers  used  to  go 
out,  sometimes  together,  but  most  frequently  one  at  a  time, 
while  the  other  stayed  to  enliven  the  solitude  of  Teresa. 

On  one  occasion,  however,  they  both  went  to  attend  a 
grand  chasse  that  took  place  at  the  castle  of  a  neighbor- 
ing knight  ;  they  were  to  return  at  a  certain  hour,  and 
Teresa,  feeling  unusually  well,  resolved  to  walk  a  short  dis- 
tance to  meet  them.  She  set  out  alone,  refusing  the  com- 
pany of  either  of  her  attendants,  and  took  her  course  to- 
wards the  forest,  through  which  she  knew  their  road  lay. 

An  hour  passed  away  without  bringing  home  the 
party ;  a  second  glided  by,  and  when  the  third  was  some 
way  advanced,  Pietro  and  his  wife  started  forth  in  quest  of 
the  wanderers.  Following  the  path  their  mistress  had 
taken,  they  proceeded  for  some  distance  without  finding 
any  traces  of  her,  till  at  length — Oh,  horror  ! — they  sud- 
denly came  upon  what  appeared  to  be  the  lifeless  corse  of 
their  beloved  lady  !  Marianna,  her  faithful  attendant,  threw 
herself  on  her  knees  by  the  body,  raised  the  fair,  drooping 
head — chafed  the  cold  hands,  and  at  length  succeeded  in 
restoring  life  to  the  senseless  form  she  supported  ;  mean- 
while Pietro  had  gone  to  pocure  a  litter,  and  she  was  car- 
ried home  and  placed,  almost  lifeless,  on  the  bed.  From 


THE  BARON'S  vow.  15 


that  bed  she  never  rose  again  :  during  the  night  she  gave 
birth  to  a  daughter,  which  she  only  survived  a  few  hours  ; 
but  before  she  breathed  her  last,  she  confided  to  Marianna 
the  following  tale  : — She  had  gone,  she  said,  to  meet  her 
husband  and  his  brother,  and  had  just  come  in  sight  of 
them  ;  but,  before  they  saw  or  recognized  her,  a  body  of  four 
or  five  men  rushed  from  the  wood,  struck  down  her  husband 
and  carried  off  his  brother,  in  spite  of  all  resistance  :  at  this 
sight  she  had  fallen  senseless,  and  remained  until  she  was 
discovered.  She  charged  Marianna  that,  if  her  child  sur- 
vived, she  should  adopt  it  as  her  own,  and  that  if  ever  any 
inquiries  were  made  of  it,  she  should  declare  that  it  had 
died  immediately  after  its  birth.  She  would  give  no  reason 
for  this  desire,  but  she  pressed  it  so  urgently  on  her  faith- 
ful attendant,  that  she  could  not  refuse  to  comply  with 
the  last  wishes  of  her  dying  mistress.  Soon  after  the 
hapless  young  mother  breathed  her  last,  and  she  and 
her  husband,  whose  body  was  found  in  the  wood,  with 
the  mark  of  a  grievous  blow  on  the  temple,  were  buried 
in  the  same  grave  ;  Pietro  and  Marianna  (to  whom  she 
had  given  all  the  little  personal  property  that  had  belonged 
to  herself  and  and  her  dead  lord)  took  charge  of  her  infant, 
whom  they  christened  Agatha,  and  reared  her  up  with  their 
own  boy,  Antonio,  who  was  some  four  or  five  years  her 
senior.  Years  rolled  by,  and  when  the  maiden  had  at- 
tained her  seventeenth  year,  she  married  the  playmate  of 
her  childhood,  and  thus  doubly  cemented  the  bond  that 
united  her  to  those  who  had  been  to  her  as  her  own  kin. 
But  alas  !  a  fearful  and  ravaging  sickness  broke  forth  ; 
hundreds  fell  sacrifices  to  the  destroying  disease,  and  Ma- 
rianna and  Antonio  were  among  the  victims.  Agatha,  who 


16  THE  BARON'S  vow. 

was  now  a  mother,  in  one  night  saw  herself  a  widow,  and 
her  hapless  babe  an  orphan.  She  and  Pietro  fled  the  scene 
of  past  happiness  and  present  anguish — the  scene  where 
naught  but  death  and  poverty  and  disease  reigned  around. 
The  old  man  considered  that,  with  his  wife,  had  expired 
the  vow  made  to  preserve  secrecy  as  to  the  existence  of 
Agatha  ;  and  he  resolved  to  take  her  to  her  father's  land, 
and  to  seek  a  home  for  her  among  some  of  that  father's 
kin.  With  this  intention  they  set  forth,  and  wandered  on 
till  accident  led  them  to  the  Castle  von  Leyden. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  the  tale  Pietro  related  :  the 
baron  listened  with  profound  attention  to  the  close,  and 
then,  with  visible  effort,  proceeded  to  give  his  explanation. 

"  Listen,  Pietro,"  he  said  impressively,  "for  I  am  now 
about  to  tell  thee,  that  which  no  human  being  but  myself 
even  suspects.  That  fatal  day,  when  returning  from  the 
hunt  with  my  brother,  (Heaven  grant  rest  to  his  soul !)  a 
deer  sprang  from  the  thicket ;  we  both  fired  ;  the  deer  fell 
— the  shot  was  an  unusually  long  one — and  each  claimed 
the  praise  of  having  killed  him.  We  were  equally  posi- 
tive ;  neither  would  yield  ;  and  a  hot  dispute  arose.  You 
remember  my  poor  brother's  violent  temper :  in  a  moment 
of  fury  he  struck  me — I  returned  the  blow  ;  he  staggered 
and  fell.  In  an  agony  of  terror  and  remorse,  I  flung  my- 
self on  my  knees  beside  him.  I  raised  him  up — I  called 
on  him,  in  terms  of  passionate  grief  and  affection,  to  speak 
to  me — to  forgive  me  !  All  was  vain,  he  was  dead — and 
I  was  his  murderer  !  I  now  recollect  that  at  the  moment 
he  fell,  I  heard  a  scream,  but  in  the  agony  of  the  instant 
the  circumstance  was  scarcely  observed  ;  alas  !  it  must  have 
been  the  scream  of  Teresa — she  then  had  witnessed  the 


THE  BAKON'S  vow.  17 


death  of  her  husband  by  the  hand  of  one  .whom  she  had 
ever  loved  as  her  own  brother  !  When  I  discovered  that  life 
had  indeed  departed,  I  fled  from  the  spot  like  one  dis- 
traught ;  but  I  did  not  leave  the  neighborhood  entirely 
till  I  could  hear  the  fate  of  Teresa.  With  much  difficulty 
I  learned  the  birth  of  her  child,  and  the  death  of  both  it 
and  the  mother.  I  was  then  trebly  a  murderer  !  Life  had 
lost  all  that  could  render  it  endurable  ;  and  I  rushed  into 
every  danger,  with  the  frantic  hope  that  I  should  never 
come  forth  alive  ;  but  I  escaped  all  the  storm — the  fight — 
in  each  peril  I  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life,  and  passed 
through  all  unscathed.  Then  I  thought  that  kind  Provi- 
dence had  preserved  me  for  a  better  end — I  resolved  to  re- 
turn to  the  vast  possessions  now  become  mine,  and  there  to 
spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  acts  of  charity,  as  some  atone- 
ment for  my  past  guilt.  Among  other  penances,  I  im- 
posed upon  myself  that  of  ever  placing  before  my  humble 
guests  the  first  dish  at  each  repast,  and  never  allowing 
any  excuse  to  interfere  with  this  duty  ;  and  to  this,  worthy 
Pietro,  do  I  owe  the  recognition  of  thee,  and  of  my  bro- 
ther's child,  whose  singular  likeness  to  her  mother  first  led 
me  to  believe  that  the  grave  had  not  swallowed  up  all  that 
were  of  my  own  blood. — Now  shall  she  be  to  me  as  a 
daughter,  and  in  the  light  of  her  love  shall  my  last  days  be 
bright." 

Thus  spoke  the  baron  ;  and  the  tears  that  sparkled  on 
the  sleeve  of  his  dark  doublet,  told  what  varied  emotions 
had  been  excited  in  his  breast  during  the  recital. 

It  were  little  needed  to  give  the  sequel  of  the  tale  :  the 
gentle  Agatha,  who  never  knew  her  uncle's  involuntary 
crime,  loved  and  tended  him  as  a  daughter  ;  and  in  her 


18  THE  BARON'S  vow. 


fond  attentions,  and  in  the  caresses  of  her  child,  he  once 
more  found  the  peace  so  long  denied  him. 

Old  Pietro  became  also  an  inmate  of  the  Castle  von 
Leyden,  and  passed  his  last  days  near  his  daughter-in-law 
and  grandchild.  Now  was  explained  to  him  the  reason 
why  the  Lady  Teresa  had  so  urgently  insisted  upon  the  ex- 
istence of  her  child  being  denied  ;  she  had  seen  her  hus- 
band fall  by  the  hand  of  his  brother,  but,  kn'owing  that  the 
blow  had  been  provokod,  and  the  consequence  uninten- 
tional, she  did  not  wish  to  bring  the  offender  to  punish- 
ment :  still,  though  willing  to  screen  him,  she  could  not 
bear  the  idea  that,  some  day,  her  child  should  fall  into  the 
hands  of  him  by  whom  its  father  met  his  death,  and  be  de- 
pendent upon  him  for  protection. 


THE    SISTEKS   OF    ALBANO.  16 


TIE  SiSTSRS  @F  AL3 

RY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    FRANKENSTEIN. 

IT  was  to  see  this  beautiful  lake  that  I  made  my  last 
excursion  before  quitting  Borne.  The  spring  had  nearly 
grown  into  summer,  the  trees  were  all  in  full  but  fresh 
green  foliage,  the  vine-dresser  was  singing,  perched  among 
them,  training  his  vines  ;  the  cicala  had  not  yet  begun  her 
song,  the  heats  therefore  had  not  commenced  ;  but  at 
evening  the  fireflies  gleamed  among  the  hills,  and  the  coo- 
ing azilo  assured  us  of  what  in  that  country  needs  no  assur- 
ance, fine  weather  for  the  morrow.  We  set  out  early  in 
the  morning  to  avoid  the  heats,  breakfasted  at  Albano,  and 
till  ten  o'clock  passed  our  time  in  visiting  the  Mosaic,  the 
villa  of  Cicero,  and  other  curiosities  of  the  place.  We 
reposed  during  the  middle  of  the  day  in  a  tent  elevated 
for  us  at  the  hilltop,  whence  we  looked  on  the  hill-embo- 
somed lake,  and  the  distant  eminence  crowned  by  a  town 
with  its  church.  Other  villages  and  cottages  were  scattered 
among  the  foldings  of  mountains,  and  beyond  we  saw  the 
deep  blue  sea  of  the  southern  poets,  which  received  the 
swift  and  immortal  Tiber,  rocking  it  to  repose  among  its 


20  THE   SISTERS   OF   ALBANO. 

devouring  waves.  The  Coliseum  falls  and  the  Pantheon 
decays — the  very  hills  of  Borne  are  perishing,  but  the 
Tiber  lives  for  ever,  flows  for  ever,  and  for  ever  feeds  the 
land-encircling  Mediterranean  with  fresh  waters. 

Our  summer  and  pleasure-seeking  party  consisted  of 
many  :  to  me  the  most  interesting  person  was  the  Countess 

Atanasia  D ,  who  was  as  beautiful  as  an  imagination 

of  Raphael,  and  good  as  the  ideal  of  a  poet.  Two  of  her 
children  accompanied  her,  with  animated  looks  and  gen- 
tle manners,  quiet,  yet  enjoying.  I  sat  near  her,  watching 
the  changing  shadows  of  the  landscape  before  us.  As  the 
sun  descended,  it  poured  a  tide  of  light  into  the  valley  of 
the  lake,  deluging  the  deep  bank  formed  by  the  mountain 
with  liquid  gold.  The  domes  and  turrets  of  the  far  town 
flashed  and  gleamed,  the  trees  were  dyed  in  splendor ; 
two  or  three  slight  clouds,  which  had  drunk  the  radiance 
till  it  became  their  essence,  floated  golden  islets  in  the 
lustrous  empyrean.  The  waters,  reflecting  the  brilliancy 
of  the  sky  and  the  fire-tinted  banks,  beamed  a  second 
heaven,  a  second  irradiated  earth,  at  our  feet.  The  Medi- 
terranean gazing  on  the  sun — as  the  eyes  of  a  mortal  bride 
fail  and  are  dimmed  when  reflecting  her  lover's  glance — was 
lost,  mixed  in  his  light,  till  it  had  become  one  with  him. 
Long  (our  souls,  like  the  sea,  the  hills  and  lake,  drinking  in 
the  supreme  loveliness)  we  gazed,  till  the  too-full  cup  over- 
flowed, and  we  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

At  our  feet  there  was  a  knoll  of  ground,  that  formed 
the  foreground  of  our  picture  ;  two  trees  lay  basking  against 
the  sky,  glittering  with  the  golden  light,  which  like  dew 
seemed  to  hang  amid  their  branches — a  rock  closed  the 
prospect  on  the  other  side,  twined  round  by  creepers,  and 


THE   SISTERS   OF    ALBANO. 


redolent  with  blooming  myrtle — a  brook  crossed  by  huge 
stones  gushed  through  the  turf,  and  on  the  fragments  of 
rock  that  lay  about,  sat  two  or  three  persons,  peasants,  who 
attracted  our  attention.  One  was  a  hunter,  as  his  gun,  ly- 
ing on  a  bank  not  far  off,  demonstrated ;  yet  he  was  a 
tiller  of  the  soil ;  his  rough  straw  hat,  and  his  picturesque 
but  coarse  dress  belonged  to.  that  class.  The  other  was 
some  contadina,  in  the  costume  of  her  country,  returning, 
her '  basket  on  her  arm,  from  the  village  to  her  cottage 
home.  They  were  regarding  the  stores  of  a  peddler,  who 
with  doffed  hat  stood  near  :  some  of  these  consisted  of  pic- 
tures and  prints — views  of  the  country,  and  portraits  of  the 
Madonna.  Our  peasants  regarded  these  with  pleased  at- 
tention. 

"  One  might  easily  make  out  a  story  for  the  pair,"  I 
said  :  ''his  gun  is  a  help  to  the  imagination,  and  we  may 
fancy  him  a  bandit  with  his  contadina  love,  the  terror  of 
all  the  neighborhood,  except  of  her,  the  most  defenceless 
being  in  it." 

"  You  speak  lightly  of  such  a  combination/'  said  the 
lovely  Countess  at  my  side,  "  as  if  it  must  not  in  its  nature 
be  the  cause  of  dreadful  tragedies.  The  mingling  of  love 
with  crime  is  a  dread  conjunction,  and  lawless  pursuits  are 
never  followed  without  bringing  on  the  criminal,  and  all 
allied  to  him,  ineffable  misery.  I  speak  with  emotion,  for 
your  observation  reminds  me  of  an  unfortunate  girl,  now 
one  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity  in  the  convent  of  Santa  Chiara 
at  Rome,  whose  unhappy  passion  for  a  man,  such  as  you 
mention,  spread  destruction  and  sorrow  widely  around  her." 

I  entreated  my  lovely  friend  to  relate  the  history  of  the 
nun.  For  a  long  time  she  resisted  my  entreaties,  as  not 


22  THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO. 

willing  to  depress  the  spirit  of  a  party  of  pleasure  by  a  tale 
of  sorrow.  But  I  urged  her,  and  she  yielded.  Her  sweet 
Italian  phraseology  now  rings  in  my  ears,  and  her  beauti- 
ful countenance  is  before  me.  As  she  spoke  the  sun  set, 
and  the  moon  bent  her  silver  horn  in  the  ebbing  tide  of 
glory  he  had  left.  The  lake  changed  from  purple  to  silver, 
and  the  trees,  before  so  splendid,  now  in  dark  masses,  just 
reflected  from  their  tops  the  mild  moonlight.  The  fireflies 
flashed  among  the  rocks  ;  the  bats  circled  round  us  ;  mean- 
while thus  commenced  the  Countess  Atanasia  : 

The  nun  of  whom  I  speak  had  a  sister  older  than  her- 
self ;  I  can  remember  them  when  as  children  they  brought 
eggs  and  fruit  to  my  father's  villa.  Maria  and  Anina  were 
constantly  together.  With  their  large  straw  hats  to  shield 
them  from  the  scorching  sun,  they  were  at  work  in  their 
father's  podere  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  when  Maria, 
who  was  the  elder  by  four  years,  went  to  the  fountain  for 
water,  Anina  ran  at  her  side.  Their  cot — the  folding  of 
the  hill  conceals  it — is  at  the  lake  side  opposite  ;  and  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  hill  is  the  rustic  fountain  of 
which  I  speak.  Maria  was  serious,  gentle,  and  consider- 
ate ;  Anina  was  a  laughing,  merry  little  creature,  with  the 
face  of  a  cherub.  When  Maria  was  fifteen,  their  mother 
fell  ill,  and  was  nursed  at  the  convent  of  Santa  Chiara  at 
Rome.  Maria  attended  her,  never  leaving  her  bedside  day 
or  night.  The  nuns  thought  her  an  angel,  she  deemed 
them  saints  ;  her  mother  died,  and  they  persuaded  her  to 
make  one  of  them  ;  her  father  could  not  but  acquiesce  in 
her  holy  intention,  and  she  became  one  of  the  Sisters  of 
Charity,  the  nun-nurses  of  Santa  Chiara.  Once  or  twice 
a  year,  she  visited  her  home,  gave  sage  and  kind  advice  to 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  23 

Anina,  and  sometimes  wept  to  part  from  her  ;  but  her  piety 
and  her  active  employments  for  the  sick  reconciled  her  to 
her  fate.  Anina  was  more  sorry  to  lose  her  sister's  society. 
The  other  girls  of  the  village  did  not  please  her  ;  she  was 
a  good  child,  and  worked  hard  for  her  father,  and  her 
sweetest  recompense  was  the  report  he  made  of  her  to 
Maria,  and  the  fond  praises  and  caresses  the  latter  bestowed 
on  her  when  they  met. 

It  was  not  until  she  was  fifteen  that  Anina  showed 
any  diminution  of  affection  for  her  sister.  Yet  I  cannot 
call  it  diminution,  for  she  loved  her  perhaps  more  than 
ever,  though  her  holy  calling  and  sage  lectures  prevented  her 
from  reposing  confidence,  and  made  her  tremble  lest  the 
nun,  devoted  to  heaven  and  good  works,  should  read  in  her 
eyes,  and  disapprove  of  the  earthly  passion  that  occupied 
her.  Perhaps  a  part  of  her  reluctance  arose  from  the  re- 
ports that  were  current  against  her  lover's  character,  and 
certainly  from  the  disapprobation  and  even  hatred  of  him 
that  her  father  frequently  expressed.  Ill-fated  Anina  !  I 
know  not  if  in  the  north  your  peasants  love  as  ours  ;  but 
the  passion  of  Anina  was  entwined  with  the  roots  of  her 
being,  it  was  herself :  she  could  die,  but  not  cease  to  love. 
The  dislike  of  her  father  for  Domenico  made  their  inter- 
course clandestine.  He  was  always  at  the  fountain  to  fill 
her  pitcher,  and  lift  it  on  her  head.  He  attended  the 
same  mass  ;  and  when  her  father  went  to  Albano,  Velletri, 
or  Eome,  he  seemed  to  learn  by  instinct  the  exact  moment 
of  his  departure,  and  joined  her  in  the  podere,  laboring 
with  her  and  for  her,  till  the  old  man  was  seen  descending 
the  mountain-path  on  his  return.  He  said  he  worked  for  a 
contadino  near  Nemi.  Anina  sometimes  wondered  that 


24  THE   SISTERS   OF    ALBANO. 

he  could  spare  so  much  time  for  her ;  but  his  excuses  were 
plausible,  and  the  result  too  delightful  not  to  blind  the  in- 
nocent girl  to  its  obvious  cause. 

Poor  Domenico  !  the  reports  spread  against  him  were 
too  well  founded  :  his  sole  excuse  was  that  his  father  had 
been  a  robber  before  him,  and  he  had  spent  his  early  years 
among  these  lawless  men.  He  had  better  things  in  his 
nature,  and  yearned  for  the  peace  of  the  guiltless.  Yet  he 
could  hardly  be  called  guilty,  for  no  dread  crime  stained 
him  ;  nevertheless,  he  was  an  outlaw  and  a  bandit,  and  now 
that  he,loved  Anina  these  names  were  the  stings  of  an  ad- 
der to  pierce  his  soul.  He  would  have  fled  fom  his  com- 
rades to  a  far  country,  but  Anina  dwelt  amid  their  very 
haunts.  At  this  period  also,  the  police  established  by  the 
French  government,  which  then  possessed  Home,  made 
these  bands  more  alive  to  the  conduct  of  their  members, 
and  rumors  of  active  measures  to  be  taken  against  those 
who  occupied  tho  hills  near  Albano,  Nemi,  and  Velletri, 
caused  them  to  draw  together  in  tighter  bonds.  Domenico 
would  not,  if  lie  could,  desert  his  friends  in  the  hour  of  dan- 
ger. 

On  afesta  at  this  time — it  was  towards  the  end  of  Oc- 
tober— Anina  strolled  with  her  father  among  the  villagers, 
who  all  over  Italy  make  holiday  by  congregating  and  walk- 
ing in  one  place.  Their  talk  was  entirely  of  the  laddri 
and  the  French,  and  many  terrible  stories  were  related  of 
the  extirpation  of  banditti  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  and 
the  mode  by  which  the  French  succeeded  in  their  under- 
taking was  minutely  described.  The  troops  scoured  the 
country,  visiting  one  haunt  of  the  robbers  after  the  other, 
and  dislodging  them  tracked  them,  as  in  those  countries 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  25 

they  hunt  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest,  till  drawing  the 
circle  narrower,  they  enclosed  them  in  one  spot.  They 
then  drew  a  cordon  round  the  place,  which  they  guarded 
with  the  utmost  vigilance,  forbidding  any  to  enter  it  with 
provisions  on  pain  of  instant  death.  And  as  this  menace 
was  rigorously  executed,  in  a  short  time  the  besieged  ban- 
dits were  starved  into  a  surrender.  The  French  troops 
were  now  daily  expected,  for  they  had  been  seen  at  Velle- 
tri  and  Nemi ;  at  the  same  time  it  was  affirmed  that 
several  outlaws  had  taken  up  their  abode  at  Rocca  Giovane, 
a  deserted  village  on  the  summit  of  one  of  these  hills,  and 
it  was  supposed  that  they  would  make  that  place  the  scene 
of  their  final  retreat. 

The  next  day,  as  Anina  worked  in  the  podere,  a  party 
of  French  horse  passed  by  along  the  road  that  separated 
her  garden  from  the  lake.  Curiosity  made  her  look  at 
them  ;  and  her  beauty  was  too  great  not  to  attract  ;  their 
observations  and  addresses  soon  drove  her  away — for  a  wo- 
man in  love  consecrates  herself  to  her  lover,  and  deems  the 
admiration  of  others  to  be  profanation.  She  spoke  to  her 
father  of  the  impertinence  of  these  men,  and  he  answered 
by  rejoicing  at  their  arrival,  and  the  destruction  of  the 
lawless  bands  that  would  ensue.  When,  in  the  evening, 
Anina  went  to  the  fountain,  she  looked  timidly  around,  and 
hoped  that  Domenico  would  be  at  his  accustomed  post,  for 
the  arrival  of  the  French  destroyed  her  feeling  of  security. 
She  went  rather  later  than  usual,  and  a  cloudy  evening 
made  it  seem  already  dark  ;  the  wind  roared  among  the 
trees,  bending  hither  and  thither  even  the  stately  cypresses  ; 
the  waters  of  the  lake  were  agitated  into  high  waves,  and 
dark  masses  of  thunder-cloud  lowered  over  the  hill-tops, 
2 


26  THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO. 

giving  a  lurid  tinge  to  the  landscape.  Anina  passed  quickly 
up  the  mountain  path  ;  when  she  came  in  sight  of  the 
fountain,  which  was  rudely  hewn  in  the  living  rock,  she 
saw  Domenico  leaning  against  a  projection  of  the  hill,  his 
hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  his  tabaro  fallen  from  his  shoulders, 
his  arms  folded  in  an  attitude  of  dejection.  He  started 
•Then  he  saw  her  ;  his  voice  and  phrases  were  broken  and 
unconnected  ;  yet  he  never  gazed  on  her  with  such  ardent 
love,  nor  solicited  her  to  delay  her  departure  with  such  im- 
passionate  tenderness. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  find  you  here  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I 
was  fearful  of  meeting  one  of  the  French  soldiers  :  I  dread 
them  even  more  than  the  banditti." 

Domenico  cast  a  look  of  eager  inquiry  on  her,  and  then 
turned  away  saying,  "  Sorry  am  I  that  I  shall  not  be  here 
to  protect  you.  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Rome  for  a  week 
or  two.  You  will  be  faithful,  Anina  mia  ;  you  will  love 
me  though  I  never  see  you  more  ?  " 

The  interview  under  these  circumstances,  was  longer 
than  usual  ;  he  led  her  down  the  path  till  they  nearly  came 
in  sight  of  the  cottage  ;  still  they  lingered  ;  a  low  whistle 
was  heard  among  the  myrtle  underwood  at  the  lake  side  ; 
he  started  ;  it  was  repeated,  and  he  answered  it  by  a 
similar  note  ;  Anina,  terrified,  was  about  to  ask  what 
this  meant,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  pressed  her  to 
his  heart,  kissed  her  roseate  lips,  and  with  a  muttered 
"  Carissima  addio,"  left  her,  springing  down  the  bank  ;  and 
as  she  gazed  in  wonder,  she  thought  she  saw  a  boat  cross 
a  line  of  light  made  by  the  opening  of  a  cloud.  She  stood 
long  absorbed  in  reverie,  wondering  and  remembering  with 
thrilling  pleasure  the  quick  embrace  and  impassioned 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  27 

farewell  of  her  lover.  She  delayed  so  long  that  her  father 
came  to  seek  her. 

Each  evening  after  this,  Anina  visited  the  fountain  at 
the  Ave  Maria  ;  he  was  not  there  ;  each  day  seemed  an 
age ;  and  incomprehensible  fears  occupied  her  heart. 
About  a  fortnight  after,  letters  arrived  from  Maria.  They 
came  to  say  that  she  had  been  ill  of  the  malaria  fever,  that 
she  was  now  convalescent,  but  that  change  of  air  was  ne- 
ccessary  for  her  recovery,  and  that  she  had  obtained  leave 
to  spend  a  month  at  home  at  Albano.  She  asked  her 
father  to  come  the  next  day  to  fetch  her.  These  were 
pleasant  tidings  for  Anina  ;  she  resolved  to  disclose  every 
thing  to  her  sister,  and  during  her  long  visit  she  doubted 
not  but  that  she  would  contrive  her  happiness.  Old 
Andrea  departed  the  following  morning,  and  the  whole  day 
was  spent  by  the  sweet  girl  in  dreams  of  future  bliss.  In 
the  evening  Maria  arrived,  weak  and  wan,  with  all  the 
marks  of  that  dread  illness  about  her  ;  yet,  as  she  assured 
her  sister,  feeling  quite  well. 

As  they  sat  at  their  frugal  supper,  several  villagers 
came  in  to  inquire  for  Maria  ;  but  all  their  talk  was  of  the 
French  soldiers  and  the  robbers,  of  whom  a  band  of  at  least 
twenty  was  collected  in  Rocca  Grtovane,  strictly  watched  by 
the  military. 

"  We  may  be  grateful  to  the  French,"  said  Andrea, 
"  for  this  good  deed :  the  country  will%  be  rid  of  these 
ruffians." 

"  True,  friend,"  said  another  ;  "  but  it  is  horrible  to 
think  what  these  men  suffer ;  they  have,  it  appears,  ex- 
hausted all  the  food  they  brought  with  them  to  the  village, 
and  are  literaJly  starving.  They  have  not  an  ounce  of 


28  THE    SISTERS   OF   ALBANO. 

maccaroni  among  them  ;  and  a  poor  fellow,  who  was  taken 
and  executed  yesterday,  was  a  mere  anatomy  ;  you  could 
tell  every  bone  in  his  skin." 

"  There  was  a  sad  story  the  other  'day,"  said  another, 
"  of  an  old  man  from  Nemi,  whose  son,  they  say,  is 
among  them  at  Kocca  Giovane  ;  he  was  found  within  the 
lines  with  some  baccala  under  his  pastrano,  and  shot  on 
the  spot." 

"  There  is  not  a  more  desperate  gang,"  observed  the 
first  speaker,  "in  the  states  and  the  regno  put  together. 
They  have  sworn  never  to  yield  but  on  good  terms  :  to  se- 
cure these,  their  plan  is  to  waylay  passengers  and  make 
prisoners,  whom  they  keep  as  hostages  for  mild  treatment 
from  the  government.  But  the  French  are  merciless  :  they 
are  better  pleased  that  the  bandits  wreak  their  vengeance 
on  these  poor  creatures  than  spare  one  of  their  lives." 

"  They  have  captured  two  persons  already,"  said  ano- 
ther ;  "  and  there  is  old  Betta  Tossi  half  frantic,  for  she  is 
sure  her  son  is  taken  :  he  has  not  been  at  home  these  ten 
days." 

"  I  should  rather  guess,"  said  an  old  man,  "  that  he  went 
there  with  good  will  :  the  young  scapegrace  kept  company 
with  Domenico  Baldi  of  Nemi." 

"  No  worse  company  could  he  have  kept  in  the  whole 
country,"  said  Andrea  ;  "  Domenico  is  the  bad  son  of  a  bad 
race.  Is  he  in  tlie  village  with  the  rest  ?  " 

"  My  own  eyes  assured  me  of  that,"  replied  the  other. 
'•'  When  I  was  up  the  hill  with  eggs  and  fowls  to  the  pi- 
juette  there,  I  saw  the  branches  of  an  ilex  move  ;  the  poor 
fellow  was  weak  perhaps,  and  could  not  keep  his  hold  ; 
presently  he  dropped  to  the  ground  ;  even'  musket  was 


THE   SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  29 

levelled  at  him,  but  he  started  up  and  was  away  like  a  hare 
among  the  rocks.  Once  he  turned,  and  then  I  saw  Dorue- 
nico  as  plainly,  though  thinner,  poor  lad,  by,  much  than  he 
was,  as  plainly,  as  I  now  see — Santa  Virgine  !  what  is  the 
matter  with  Nina  ?  " 

She  had  fainted  ;  the  company  broke  up,  and  she  was 
left  to  her  sister's  care.  When  the  poor  child  came  to 
herself  she  was  fully  aware  of  her  situation,  and  said  no- 
thing, except  expressing  a  wish  to  retire  to  rest.  Maria 
was  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  her  long  holiday  at 
home,  but  the  illness  of  her  sister  made  her  refrain  from 
talking  that  night,  and  blessing  her,  as  she  said  good  night, 
she  soon  slept.  Domenico  starving  ! — Domenico  trying  to 
escape  and  dying  through  hunger,  was  the  vision  of  horror 
that  wholly  possessed  poor  Anina.  At  another  time,  the 
discovery  that  her  lover  was  a  robber  might  have  inflicted 
pangs  as  keen  as  those  which  she  now  felt  ;  but  this,  at  pres- 
ent, made  a  faint  impression,  obscured  by  worse  wretched- 
ness. Maria  was  in  a  deep  and  tranquil  sleep.  Anina 
rose,  dressed  herself  silently,  and  crept  down  stairs. 
She  stored  her  market-basket  with  what  food  there  was  in 
the  house,  and  unlatching  the  cottage-door  issued  forth,  re- 
solved to  reach  Bocca  Giovane,  and  to  administer  to  her 
lover's  dreadful  wants.  The  night  was  dark,  but  this  was 
favorable,  for  she  knew  every  path  and  turn  of  the  hills  ; 
every  bush  and  knoll  of  ground  between  her  home  and  the 
deserted  village  which  occupies  the  summit  of  that  hill  : 
you  may  see  the  dark  outline  of  some  of  its  houses  about 
two  hours'  walk  from  her  cottage.  The  night  was  dark,  but 
still ;  the  libeccio  brought  the  clouds  below  the  mountain- 
tops,  and  veiled  the  horizon  in  mist  ;  not  a  leaf  stirred  ; 


30  THE    SISTERS   OF    ALBANO. 

her  footsteps  sounded  loud  in  her  ears,  but  resolution  over- 
came fear.  She  had  entered  yon  ilex  grove  ;  her  spirits 
rose  with  her  success,  when  suddenly  she  was  challenged 
by  a  sentinel ;  no  time  for  escape  ;  fear  chilled  her  blood  ; 
her  basket  dropped  from  her  arm  ;  its  contents  rolled  out 
on  the  ground  ;  the  soldier  fired  his  gun  and  brought 
several  others  round  him  ;  she  was  made  prisoner. 

In  the  morning,  when  Maria  awoke,  she  missed  her  sis- 
ter from  her  side.  I  have  overslept  myself,  she  thought, 
and  Nina  would  not  disturb  me.  But  when  she  came 
down  stairs  and  met  her  father,  and  Anina  did  not  appear, 
they  began  to  wonder.  She  was  not  in  the  podere;  two 
hours  passed,  and  then  Andrea  went  to  seek  her.  Enter- 
ing the  near  village,  he  saw  the  contadini  crowding  toge- 
ther, and  a  stifled  exclamation  of  "  Ecco  il  padre  !  "  told 
him  that  some  evil  had  betided.  His  first  impression  was 
that  his  daughter  was  drowned  ;  but  the  truth,  that  she 
had  been  taken  by  the  French  carrying  provisions  within 
the  forbidden  line,  was  still  more  terrible.  He  returned  in 
frantic  desperation  to  his  cottage,  first  to  acquaint  Maria 
with  what  had  happened,  and  then  to  ascend  the  hill  to 
save  his  child  from  her  impending  fate.  Maria  heard  his 
tale  with  horror  ;  but  an  hospital  is  a  school  in  which  to 
learn  self- possession  and  presence  of  mind.  "  Do  you  re- 
main, my  father,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  go.  My  holy  charac- 
ler  will  awe  these  men,  my  tears  move  them  ;  trust  me,  I 
swear  that  I  will  save  my  sister."  Andrea  yielded  to  her 
superior  courage  and  energy. 

The  nuns  of  Santa  Chiara  when  out  of  their  convent 
ilo  not  usually  wear  their  monastic  habit,  but  dress  simply 
•>n  a  black  gown.  Maria  had,  however,  brought  her  nun's 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  31 

habiliments  with  her,  and  thinking  thus  to  impress  the  sol- 
diers with  respect,  she  now  put  it  on.  She  received  hei 
father's  benediction,  and  asking  that  of  the  Virgin  and  the 
saints,  she  departed  on  her  expedition.  Ascending  the  hill, 
she  was  soon  stopped  by  the  sentinels.  She  asked  to  see 
their  commanding  officer,  and  being  conducted  to  him,  she 
announced  herself  as  the  sister  of  the  unfortunate  girl  who 
had  been  captured  the  night  before.  The  officer,  who  had 
received  her  with  carelessness,  now  changed  countenance  ; 
his  serious  look  frightened  Maria,  who  clasped  her  hands 
exclaiming,  "You  have  not  injured  the  child  !  she  is  safe  ?  " 

"  She  is  safe — now,"  he  replied  with  hesitation  ;  "  but 
there  is  no  hope  of  pardon." 

"  Holy  Virgin  have  mercy  on  her  !  what  will  be  done 
to  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  received  strict  orders  ;  in  two  hours  she  dies." 

u  No  !  no  !"  exclaimed  Maria  impetuously,  "that  can- 
not be  !  you  cannot  be  so  wicked  as  to  murder  a  child  like 
her." 

"  She  is  old  enough,  madame,"  said  the  officer,  "  to  know 
that  she  ought  not  to  disobey  orders  ;  mine  are  so  strict 
that  were  she  but  nine  years  old  she  dies." 

These  terrible  words  stung  Maria  to  fresh  resolution  : 
she  entreated  for  mercy  ;  she  knelt ;  she  vowed  that  she 
would  not  depart  without  her  sister ;  she  appealed  to  hea- 
ven and  the  saints.  The  officer,  though  cold-hearted,  was 
good-natured  and  courteous,  and  he  assured  her  with  the 
utmost  gentleness  that  her  supplications  were  of  no  avail ; 
that  were  the  criminal  his  own  daughter  he  must  enforce 
his  orders.  As  a  sole  concession,  he  permitted  her  to  see 
her  sister.  Despair  inspired  the  nun  with  energy  ;  she  al- 


THE    SISTERS   OF   ALBANO. 


most  ran  up  the  hill,  out-speeding  her  guide  ;  they  crossed 
the  folding  of  the  hills  to  a  little  sheep-cot,  where  sentinels 
paraded  before  the  door.  There  was  no  glass  to  the  win- 
dows, so  the  shutters  were  shut,  and  when  Maria  first 
went  in  from  the  bright  daylight  she  hardly  saw  the  slight 
figure  of  her  sister  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  dark  hair 
fallen  below  her  waist,  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  over 
which  her  arms  were  folded.  She  started  wildly  as  the 
door  opened,  saw  her  sister,  and  sprung  with  a  piercing 
shriek  into  her  arms. 

They  were  left  alone  together  :  Anina  uttered  a  thou- 
sand frantic  exclamations,  beseeching  her  sister  to  save  her, 
and  shuddering  at  the  near  approach  of  her  fate.  Maria 
had  felt  herself,  since  their  mother's  death,  the  natural  pro- 
tectress and  support  of  her  sister,  and  she  never  deemed 
herself  so  called  on  to  fulfil  this  character  as  now  that  the 
trembling  girl  clasped  her  neck  ;  her  tears  falling  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  choked  voice  entreating  her  to  save  her. 
The  thought  —  0  could  I  suffer  instead  of  you  !  —  was  in 
her  heart,  and  she  was  about  to  express  it,  when  it  sug- 
gested another  idea,  on  which  she  was  resolved  to  act. 
First  she  soothed  Anina  by  her  promises,  then  glanced 
round  the  cot  ;  they  were  quite  alone  :  she  went  to  the 
window,  and  through  a  crevice  saw  the  soldiers  conversing 
at  some  distance.  "  Yes,  dearest  sister,"  she  cried,  "  I  will 
—I  can  save  you  —  quick  —  we  must  change  dresses  —  there 
is  no  time  to  be  lost  !  —  you  must  escape  in  my  habit. 

"  And  you  remain  to  die  ?  " 

"  They  dare  not  murder  the  innocent,  a  nun  !  Fear  not 
for  me  —  I  am  safe." 

Anina   easily   yielded    to    her  sister,  but   her  fingera 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  33 

trembled  ;  every  string  she  touched  she  entangled.  Maria 
was  perfectly  self-possessed,  pale,  but  calm.  She  tied  up 
her  sister's  long  hair,  and  adjusted  her  veil  over  it  so  as  to 
conceal  it  ;  she  unlaced  her  bodice,  and  arranged  the  folds 
of  her  own  habit  on  her  with  the  greatest  care — then  more 
hastily  she  assumed  the  dress  of  her  sister,  putting  on,  after 
a  lapse  of  many  years,  her  native  contadina  costume. 
Anina  stood  by,  weeping  and  helpless,  hardly  hearing  her 
sister's  injunctions  to  return  speedily  to  their  father,  and 
under  his  guidance  to  seek  sanctuary.  The  guard  now 
opened  the  door.  Anina  clung  to  her  sister  in  terror,  while 
she,  in  soothing  tones,  entreated  her  to  calm  herself. 

The  soldier  said  they  must  delay  no  longer,  for  the 
priest  had  arrived  to  confess  the  prisoner. 

To  Anina  the  idea  of  confession  associated  with  death 
was  terrible  ;  to  Maria  it  brought  hope.  She  whispered,  in 
a  smothered  voice,  "  The  priest  will  protect  me — fear  not 
— hasten  to  our  father  !  " 

Anina  almost  mechanically  obeyed  ;  weeping,  with  her 
handkerchief  placed  unaffectedly  before  her  face,  she  passed 
the  soldiers ;  they  closed  the  door  on  the  prisoner,  who 
hastened  to  the  window,  and  saw  her  sister  descend  the  hill 
with  tottering  steps,  till  she  was  lost  behind  some  rising 
ground.  The  nun  fell  on  her  knees,  cold  dew  bathed  her 
brow,  instinctively  she  feared :  the  French  had  shown  small 
respect  for  the  monastic  character  ;  they  destroyed  the 
convents  and  desecrated  the  churches.  Would  they  be 
merciful  to  her,  and  spare  the  innocent  !  Alas  !  was  not 
Anina  innocent  also  ?  Her  sole  crime  had  been  disobey- 
ing an  arbitraiy  command,  and  she  had  done  the  same. 

"  Courage  !  "  cried  Maria  ;  "  perhaps  I  am  fitter  to  die 
2* 


34  THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.       ' 

than  my  sister  is.  Gesu,  pardon  me  my  sins,  but  I  do  not 
believe  that  I  shall  outlive  this  day  ! " 

In  the  mean  time  Anina  descended  the  hill  slowly  and 
tremblingly.  She  feared  discovery — she  feared  for  her  sis- 
ter— and  above  all  at  the  present  moment,  she  feared  the 
reproaches  and  anger  of  her  father.  By  dwelling  on  this 
last  idea,  it  became  exaggerated  into  excessive  terror,  and 
she  determined,  instead  of  returning  to  her  home,  to  make 
a  circuit  among  the  hills,  to  find  her  way  by  herself  to  Al- 
bano,  where  she  trusted  to  find  protection  from  her  pastor 
and  confessor.  She  avoided  the  open  paths,  and  following 
rather  the  direction  she  wished  to  pursue  than  any  beaten 
road,  she  passed  along  nearer  to  Eocca  Giovane  than  she 
anticipated.  She  looked  up  at  its  ruined  houses  and  bell- 
less  steeple,  straining  her  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him, 
the  author  of  all  her  ills.  A  low  but  distinct  whistle 
reached  her  ear,  not  far  off ;  she  started — she  remembered 
that  on  the  night  when  she  last  saw  Domenico  a  note 
like  that  had  called  him  from  her  side  ;  the  sound  was 
echoed  and  re-echoed  from  other  quarters  ;  she  stood 
aghast,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  hands  clasped.  First  she 
saw  a  dark  and  ragged  head  of  hair,  shadowing  two  fiercely 
gleaming  eyes,  rise  from  beneath  a  bush.  She  screamed, 
but  before  she  could  repeat  her  scream  three  men  leapt 
from  behind  a  rock,  secured  her  arms,  threw  a  cloth  over 
her  face,  and  hurried  her  up  the  acclivity.  Their  talk,  as 
she  went  along,  informed  her  of  the  horror  and  danger  of 
her  situation. 

Pity,  they  said,  that  the  holy  father  and  some  of  his  red 
stockings  did  not  command  the  troops  :  with  a  nun  in  their 
hands,  they  might  obtain  any  terms.  Coarse  jests  passed 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  35 

as  they  dragged  their  victim  towards  their  ruined  village. 
The  paving  of  the  street  told  her  when  they  arrived  at 
Eocca  Giovane,  and  the  change  of  atmosphere  that  they 
entered  a  house.  They  unbandaged  her  eyes  :  the  scene 
was  squalid  and  miserable,  the  walls  ragged  and  black  with 
smoke,  the  floor  strewn  with  offals  and  dirt  ;  a  rude"  table 
and  broken  bench  was  all  the  furniture  ;  and  the  leaves  of 
Indian  corn,  heaped  high  in  one  corner,  served,  it  seemed, 
for  a  bed,  for  a  man  lay  on  it,  his  head  buried  in  his  folded 
arms.  Anina  looked  round  on  her  savage  hosts  :  their 
countenances  expressed  every  variety  of  brutal  ferocity,  now 
rendered  more  dreadful  from  gaunt  famine  and  suffering. 

"  0  there  is  none  who  will  save  me  ! "  she  cried.  The 
voice  startled  the  man  who  was  lying  on  the  floor  ;  he 
leapt  up — it  was  Domenico  :  Domenico,  so  changed,  with 
sunk  cheeks  and  eyes,  matted  hair,  and  looks  whose  wild- 
ness  and  desperation  differed  little  from  the  dark  counte- 
nances around  him.  Could  this  be  her  lover  ?  His  recog- 
nition and  surprise  at  her  dress  led  to  an  explanation. 
When  the  robbers  first  heard  that  their  prey  was  no  prize, 
they  were  mortified  and  angry  ;  but  when  she  related  the 
danger  she  had  incurred  by  endeavoring  to  bring  them 
food,  they  swore  with  horrid  oaths  that  no  harm  should  be- 
fall her,  but  that  if  she  liked  she  might  make  one  of  them 
in  all  honor  and  equality.  The  innocent  girl  shuddered. 
"  Let  me  go/'  she  cried  ;  "  let  me  only  escape  and  hide 
myself  in  a  convent  for  ever." 

Domenico  looked  at  her  in  agony.  "  Yes,  poor  child/' 
he  said  ;  "  go,  save  yourself  :  God  grant  no  evil  befall  you  ; 
the  ruin  is  too  wide  already."  Then  turning  eagerly  to  his 
comrades,  he  continued — "  You  hear  her  story.  She  was 


36  THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO. 

to  have  been  shot  for  bringing  food  to  us  :  her  sister  hat 
substituted  herself  in  her  place.  We  know  the  French  ; 
one  victim  is  to  them  as  good  as  another :  Maria  dies  in 
their  hands.  Let  us  save  her.  Our  time  is  up  ;  we  must 
fall  like  men,  or  starve  like  dogs  :  we  have  still  ammunition, 
still  some  strength  left.  To  arms  I  let  us  rush  on  the  pol- 
troons, free  their  prisoner,  and  escape  or  die  !  " 

They  needed  but  an  impulse  like  this  to  urge  the  out- 
laws to  desperate  resolves.  They  prepared  their  arms  with 
looks  of  ferocious  determination.  Domenico,  meanwhile, 
led  Anina  out  of  the  house,  to  the  verge  of  the  hill,  inquir- 
ing whither  she  intended  to  go.  On  her  saying  to  Albano, 
he  observed,  "  That  were  hardly  safe  ;  be  guided  by  me, 
I  entreat  you  :  take  these  piastres,  hire  the  first  convey- 
ance you  find,  hasten  to  Rome,  to  the  convent  of  Santa 
Chiara ;  for  pity's  sake,  do  not  linger  in  this  neighbor- 
hood." 

"  I  will  obey  your  injunctions,  Domenico,"  she  replied, 
"  but  I  cannot  take  your  money,  it  has  cost  you  too  dear  : 
fear  not,  I  shall  arrive  safely  at  Rome  without  that  ill-fated 
silver." 

Doinenico's  comrades  now  called  loudly  to  him ;  he 
had  no  time  to  urge  his  request  ;  he  threw  the  despised 
dollars  at  her  feet. 

"  Nina,  adieu  for  ever,"  he  said  ;  "  may  you  love  again 
more  happily  !  " 

"  Never  !  "  she  replied.  "  God  has  saved  me  in  this 
dress  ;  it  were  sacrilege  to  change  it  ;  I  shall  never  quit 
Santa  Chiara." 

Domenico  had  led  her  a  part  of  the  way  down  the 
rock  ;  his  comrades  appeared  at  the  top,  calling  to  him. 


THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO.  37 

"  Gresu  save  you ! "  cried  he ;  "reach  the  convent.  Maria 
shall  join  you  there  before  night.  Farewell  !  "  he  hastily 
kissed  her  hand,  and  sprang  up  the  acclivity  to  rejoin  his 
impatient  friends. 

The  unfortunate  Andrea  had  waited  long  for  the  return 
of  his  children.  The  leafless  trees  and  bright  clear  atmos- 
phere permitted  every  object  to  be  visible,  but  he  saw  no 
trace  of  them  on  the  hillside  ;  the  shadows  of  the  dial 
showed  noon  to  be  past,  when,  with  uncontrollable  impa- 
tience, he  began  to  climb  the  hill,  towards  the  spot  where 
Anina  had  been  taken.  The  path  he  pursued  was  in 
part  the  same  that  this  unhappy  girl  had  taken  on  her 
way  to  Borne.  The  father  and  daughter  met  ;  the  old 
man  saw  the  nun's  dress,  and  saw  her  unaccompanied  ; 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  in  a  transport  of  fear 
and  shame  ;  but  when,  mistaking  her  for  Maria,  he  asked 
in  a  tone  of  anguish  for  his  youngest  darling,  her  arms  fell  ; 
she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes,  which  streamed  with  tears. 

"  Unhappy  girl !  "  exclaimed  Andrea,  "  where  is  your 
sister  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  cottage  prison,  now  discernible 
near  the  summit  of  a  steep  acclivity.  "  She  is  safe,"  she 
replied  ;  "  she  saved  me,  but  they  dare  not  murder  her." 

"  Heaven  bless  her  for  this  good  deed  ! "  exclaimed 
the  old  man  fervently  ;  "  but  you  hasten  on  your  way,  and 
I  will  go  in  search  of  her." 

Each  proceeded  on  an  opposite  path.  The  old  man  wound 
up  the  hill,  now  in  view,  and  now  losing  sight  of  the  hut 
where  his  child  was  captive  :  he  was  aged,  and  the  way  was 
steep.  Once,  when  the  closing  of  the  hill  hid  the  point 
towards  which  he  for  ever  strained  his  eyes,  a  single  shot 


38  THE    SISTERS    OF    ALBANO. 

was  fired  in  that  direction;  bis  staff  fell  from  his  hands, 
his  knees  trembled  and  failod  him  ;  several  minutes  of 
dead  silence  elapsed  before  he  recovered  himself  sufficient- 
ly to  proceed.  Full  of  fears  he  went  on,  and  at  the  next 
turn  saw  the  cot  again.  A  party  of  soldiers  were  on  the 
open  space  before  it,  drawn  up  in  a  line  as  if  expecting  an 
attack.  In  a  few  moments  from  above  them  shots  were 
fired,  which  they  returned,  and  the  whole  was  enveloped 
and  veiled  in  smoke.  Still  Andrea  climbed  the  hill,  eager 
to  discover  what  had  become  of  his  child  :  the  firing  con- 
tinued quick  and  hot.  Now  and  then,  in  the  pauses  of 
musketry  and  the  answering  echoes  of  the  mountains,  he 
heard  a  funeral  chant  ;  presently,  before  he  was  aware,  at 
the  turning  of  the  hill,  he  met  a  company  of  priests  and 
contadini,  carrying  a  large  cross  and  a  bier.  The  miser- 
able father  rushed  forward  with  frantic  impatience  ;  the 
awe-struck  peasants  set  down  their  load — the  face  was  un- 
covered, and  the  wretched  man  fell  lifeless  on  the  corpse  ot 
his  murdered  child. 

The  Countess  Atanasia  paused,  overcome  by  the  emotions 
inspired  by  the  history  she  related.  A  long  pause  ensued  : 
at  length  one  of  the  party  observed,  "  Maria,  then,  was  the 
sacrifice  to  her  goodness." 

"  The  French,"  said  the  Countess,  "  did  not  venerate 
her  holy  vocation  ;  one  peasant  girl  to  them  was  the  same 
as  another.  The  immolation  of  any  victim  suited  their 
purpose  of  awe-striking  the  peasantry.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  the  shot  entered  her  heart,  and  her  blameless  spirit 
been  received  by  the  saints  in  Paradise,  when  Domenico 
and  his  followers  rushed  down  the  hill  to  avenge  her  and 
themselves.  The  contest  was  furious  and  bloody  ;  twenty 


THE    SISTERS   OF    ALBANO.  39 

French  soldiers  fell,  and  not  one  of  the  banditti  escaped  ; 
Domenico,  the  foremost  of  the  assailants,  being  the  first  to 
fall." 

I  asked,  "  And  where  are  now  Anina  and  her  father?" 
"  You  may  see  them,  if  you  will,"  said  the  Countess, 
"  on  your  return  to  Rome.  She  is  a  nun  of  Santa  Chiara. 
Constant  acts  of  benevolence  and  piety  have  inspired  her 
with  calm  and  resignation.  Her  prayers  are  daily  put 
up  for  Domenico's  soul,  and  she  hopes,  through  the  inter- 
cession of  the  Virgin,  to  rejoin  him  in  the  other  world. 

"  Andrea  is  very  old  ;  he  has  outlived  the  memory  of 
his  sufferings  ;  but  he  derives  comfort  from  the  filial  at- 
tentions of  his  surviving  daughter.  But  when  I  look  at 
his  cottage  on  this  lake,  and  remember  the  happy  laughing 
face  of  Anina  among  the  vines,  I  shudder  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  passion  that  has  made  her  cheeks  pale,  her 
thoughts  for  ever  conversant  with  death,  her  only  wish  to 
find  repose  in  the  grave." 


FL0aS-HCS    HOW  ASS) } 

\ 

OR,  TWO  DAYS  E5T  A  LIFE. 
BY    MRS.    WALKER. 

"  Look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

SHAKSPEARBS. 

THE  experience  of  most  persons  will  attest  that  it  is  not 
the  events  of  months,  or  even  weeks,  which  govern  the  cha- 
racter of  their  lives  ;  but  rather,  that  they  take  their  hue 
of  good  or  evil  from  the  action  of  days,  often  of  hours. 
Who,  when  memory  rushes  over  the  records  of  the  past, 
does  not  seize  on  some  brief  yet  special  points  in  time, 
which  seemed  like  the  landmarks  of  destiny  to  conduct  him 
to  the  goal  of  weal  or  woe  ! 

The  story  which  I  am  about  to  narrate  is  one  of  the  in- 
stances where  life  might  be  said  to  be  divided  into  two 
days,  concentrating  in  the  one  the  essence  of  earthly  hap- 
piness, in  the  other  that  of  misery. 

Florence  Howard  was  the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of 

one  of  the  richest  and  noblest  of  the  aristocracy  in shire. 

That  beauty  which  in  this  countiy  so  pre-eminently,  I  had 
almost  said  exclusively,  belongs  to  high  birth,  had,  in  a 
very  remarkable  manner,  been  bestowed  upon  her.  A 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  41 

small,  exquisitely-shaped  head,  fair,  ample  brow,  and  large, 
deep  blue  eye  ;  a  complexion  with  the  smoothness  and  faint 
blush  of  early  infancy  ;  an  unusual  quantity,  for  an  Eng- 
lishwoman, of  the  brightest  of  chestnut  hair ;  and  a  form 
which  Canova  might  have  taken  for  the  model  of  his  Venus, 
so  luxuriously  yet  delicately  was  it  moulded  ;  were  the 
claims  which  she  advanced  to  that  supremacy  in  loveli- 
ness which  the  men  eargely  demanded  for  her,  and  which 
even  her  own  sex  conceded,  without  attempt  at  disputa- 
tion. 

Nor  was  she  only  in  external  semblance  perfect.  Of  as 
rare  a  quality  were  her  heart  and  mind.  So  essentially 
gentle,  almost  humble,  was  she,  so  unelated  by  the  extrin- 
sic advantages  surrounding  her,  so  warm  and  generous  in 
every  impulse,  so  noble  in  conception,  so  utterly  unsullied 
by  any,  the  slightest,  admixture  of  meanness  or  deception, 
that  they  who  had  the  best  opportunity  of  observing  her, 
could  but  regret  that  a  •  nature  so  finely  wrought  should 
be  given  to  one  of  earth's  denizens,  doomed,  as  all  are,  to 
perpetual  collision  in  their  sojourn  here  with  the  grovelling 
and  the  base. 

Her  intellect  only  required  exercise  for  its  development, 
to  have  won  admiration  for  its  grasp  and  power.  It  need 
not  be  said  that,  with  all  these  attractions,  the  hand  of 
Florence  was  the  object  of  anxious  rivalry  among  many 
competitors.  Too  much  beloved  by  her  mother,  her  only 
surviving  parent,  to  sway  her  in  her  inclinations,  she  was 
left  to  the  full  indulgence  of  her  own  taste  in  the  selection 
uf  the  object  on  whom  to  bestow  her  affections,  and  she 
was  precisely  the  most  improper  person  to  be  trusted  with 
so  hazardous  a  responsibility.  Undoubting  of  evil,  over- 


42  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 


flowing  with  all  that  ardor,  one  of  youth's  most  beautiful 
characteristics,  which  confides  with  fond  and  earnest  trust- 
fulness in  the  excellence  of  mankind,  she  was  ever  ready 
to  be  the  dupe,  as  it  were,  of  her  own  perfections,  by  invest- 
in^  others  with  those  attributes  of  virtue  which  she  herself 

O 

possessed.  She  had  read  of  grief  and  crime  with  sceptical 
incredulity.  Living  in  an  atmosphere  of  unclouded  joy, 
which  had  never  been  dimmed  by  the  presence  of  pain  or 
sorrow,  the  tales  which  occasionally  reached  her  of  the  ex- 
istence and  consequence  of  sin  in  the  world  without,  ap- 
peared but  as  the  exaggeration  of  fable  or  the  distortions 
of  malice.  Such  was  Florence  Howard  when  I  was  first 
introduced  to  her.  A  few  weeks  afterwards,  the  busy 
tongue  of  rumor  informed  me  that  she  had  at  length 
smiled  on  the  homage  of  one  of  her  worshippers,  and  was 
the  affianced  bride  of  Sir  Loftus  Fitzgerald.  The  court- 
ship and  preliminaries  having  been  arranged  at  Vienna, 
little  was  known  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  merits  or  de- 
fects of  her  betrothed  husband,  beyond  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  scion  of  a  noble  Irish  family,  and  not  overburdened 
with  the  gifts  of  fortune.  They,  however,  who  had  seen 
him,  represented  him  as  being  equal  in  personal  endow- 
ments to  Florence  herself,  combined  with  manners  the 
most  dazzling  to  a  creature  of  her  temperament — reserved 
and  cold  to  others  ;  to  her  soft  and  conciliating  in .  the 
highest  degree.  It  was  determined  that  her  nuptials 
should  be  solemnized  on  the  day  that  she  attained  her  ma- 
jority, now  but  a  short  period  distant. 

Those  persons  who  have  lived  in  a  country  village, 
must  be  quite  cognizant  of  the  "  note  of  preparation " 
hoard  on  every  side,  when  any  of  the  principal  inhabitant? 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  43 

are  about  to  perform  that  most  serious  act  in  life's  drama 
— marriage.  It  will,  therefore,  be  readily  conceived  what 
activity,  what  excitement,  what  joyous  yet  restless  anxiety, 
reigned  in  every  house  and  cottage,  when  it  was  formally 
announced  that  the  star  of  the  county,  the  idol  of  her  ten- 
antry, and  the  richest  heiress  within  a  hundred  miles,  had 
fixed  the  day  for  plighting  her  faith,  and  stamping  with 
the  changeless  fiat  of  bliss  or  sorrow  the  remainder  of  her 
life.  I  recur  to  the  time,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  could  now 
see  the  eager,  important-looking  faces  of  the  villagers,  hur- 
rying to  and  from  Howard  Park  to  their  dwellings,  all  ac- 
cessory in  some  way  or  other  to  the  approaching  festivities, 
and  each  deriving  individual  though  temporary  consequence 
from  their  connection  with  it.  Cattle  were  to  be  fattened 
for  slaughter,  trees  to  be  felled  for  bonfires,  all  the  gardens 
for  miles  round  to  be  laid  under  contribution  to  furnish 
garlands  for  the  occasion.  These  and  a  thousand  other 
employments  gave  to  the  quiet  village  of  Woodfield  all  the 
stir  and  merriment  of  a  country  town  on  the  eve  of  an 
election,  without  its  defacing  adjuncts  of  brawling  and  in- 
toxication. 

The  eventful  day  at  last  dawned,  and  the  heavens  could 
not  have  worn  a  lovelier  aspect,  or  earth  shown  a  fairer 
surface.  The  season,  June,  was  rich  in  the  full  flush  of 
summer  luxuriance  ;  the  air  had  that  clear,  transparent 
buoyancy  which,  not  often  breathed  in  our  climate,  is  felt 
by  us,  when  it  is  bestowed,  as.  so  very  a  blessing,  that  the 
spirits  of  all  are  involuntarily  elevated.  Every  breeze  in- 
haled came  loaded  with  such  excess  of  fragrance  from  the  ten 
thousand  blossoms  waving  around,  that  it  had  been  op- 
pressive, but  for  the  singular  freshness  mingled  with  it 


44  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 


The  sun  lighted  up  every  nook  of  the  wide-spreading  forest 
which  skirted  Howard  Park  ;  and  never  did  its  glory  shine 
on  so  matchless  a  specimen  of  Nature's  workmanship  as 
the  heroine  of  the  day,  the  heiress  and  the  bride.  That 
woman  must  be  plain,  indeed,  if,  arrayed  by  the  hands  of 
a  "  Devy"  with  the  delicate  auxiliaries  of  Brussels  lace 
and  white  satin,  added  to  the  adventitious  charm  associated 
with  her  position,  who  does  not  dress  into  a  pretty  bride 
at  twenty-one.  How,  then,  did  Florence  appear  ?  I 
actually  started  as  if  I  had  seen  some  fairy  creature  as  I 
beheld  her.  With  the  simplicity  and  piety  of  her  charac- 
ter, she  refused  to  be  married  by  special  license  in  her  own 
drawing-room,  preferring  to  come  to  that  altar  where,  in 
infancy  and  youth,  she  had  performed  the  rites  of  religion, 
and  there,  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man,  record  her  vows  of 
allegiance  to  the  husband  of  her  choice.  The  peasants, 
who  had  probably  never  gazed  upon  so  costly  a  toilette,  sur- 
veyed her  with  astonishment  ;  and,  when  she  lifted  the 
bridal  veil,  and  gave  her  young  cherub  face  to  view,  forget- 
ting the  solemnity  of  the  place,  they  burst  into  loud,  un- 
disguised admiration.  She  uttered  the  responses  clearly 
and  firmly  ;  and  I  almost  fancy  I  can  still  hear  that  low, 
sweet  voice,  which,  even  in  its  gayest  tones,  had  a  touch  of 
sadness  in  it.  She  looked  radiant  with  happiness ;  yet, 
when  Sir  Loftus  placed  the  ring  on  her  finger,  his  hand 
was  wet  with  the  fast-falli'ng  tears  which  gushed  from  her 
eyes,  and  which  even  yet  filled  them,  when  we  retired  to 
the  vestry  ;  and  this  gave  rise  to  a  remark  from  him, 
which,  though  spoken  playfully,  grated  on  my  ears  with 
peculiar  harshness. 

"  I  hate  to  see  women  cry — even  you,  Florence  ;  I  can 


FLORENCE   HOWARD.  45 

scarcely  stand  it  ! "  were  the  first  words  breathed  by  the 
bridegroom  to  his  bride.  I  confess  it  cost  me  a  struggle 
with  temper  to  avoid  some  comment  on  so  abrupt  a  speech. 
She,  true  to  her  meek  and  loving  nature,  hastily  wiped 
away  her  tears  without  reply.  But  with  woman's  unerring 
tact,  having  observed  the  effect  which  the  little  circum- 
stance had  made  on  me,  she  whispered,  "  Why  do  you 
not  scold  me  for  crying  ?  it  seems  ungrateful  to  Provi- 
dence, when  I  am  so  very,  very  happy  !  " 

We  returned  from  the  church  to  her  home  over  a  path 
literally  strewn  with  flowers.  The  peasants,  in  their  best 
attire,  lined  each  side  of  the  road,  and  poured  forth  warm 
and  hearty  blessings  on  her  as  she  passed.  And  well  did 
she  merit  their  prayers  and  benisons,  for  there  was  not  a 
cottage  on  her  estate  that  she  had  not  personally  visited  ; 
nor  from  any  had  the  cry  of  pain  or  sorrow  ever  appealed  in 
vain.  A.  fete  champetre,  in  a  style  of  magnificence  commen- 
surate with  the  occasion,  was  given  at  the  park  ;  and,  so 
universally  beloved  was  she,  that  I  do  not  think  the  hate- 
ful taunt  of  envy  mingled  with  one  of  the  congratulations 
offered  by  her  assembled  guests. 

It  is  rarely  given  to  man  or  woman  to  live  a  day  of 
such  unalloyed  felicity.  The  wife  of  the  man  she  fondly 
loved,  the  mistress  of  enormous  wealth,  the  idolized  child 
of  a  doting  mother,  life  lay  before  her,  in  imagination,  one 
line  of  unbroken  sunshine.  Her  pure,  warm  heart,  full  of 
gladness,  communicated  a  portion  of  its  intense  happiness 
to  all  who  approached.  The  old  became  younger  as  she 
drew  near — the  sad,  gay.  Even  while  I  write,  I  fancy  I 
can  again  hear  her  clear,  musical  laugh,  as  she  flung  back 
the  shower  of  roses  which  her  juvenile  companions,  in  play- 


46  FLORENCE   HOWARD. 

ful  frolic,  crowned  her  with.  Their  blushing  leaves  looked 
pale  by  her  cheek,  which  the  excitement  of  the  day  had 
tinted  with  the  deepest  glow,  and  which  the  long  auburn 
ringlets,  sweeping  over  and  descending  nearly  to  her  waist, 
could  not  quite  conceal. 

Never  did  I  see  human  happiness  so  beautifully  and 
vividly  depicted  as  in  the  face  of  Florence  Howard  on  that 
her  wedding-day.  The  radiant  yet  sportive  expression,  the 
entire  abandonment  of  the  soul  to  the  bliss  of  the  moment, 
the  concentrated  look  of  full  and  perfect  content,  all  spoke 
the  felicitous  harmony  which  reigned  within. 

But  I  must  not  linger  over  this  period.  The  breakfast 
was  finished,  the  travelling  carriage  at  the  door ;  and, 
amid  the  tears  of  many — the  blessings  of  all — she  set  out 
for  Milan. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  a  dark  winter's  day ; 
the  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  which  fell  thick  and 
fast ;  and  the  streets  of  Paris  were  almost  utterly  deserted. 
Uncongenial  as  the  weather  was,  a  lady,  whose  delicacy  of 
appearance  seemed  ill  able  to  combat  with  the  elements, 
was  yet  seen  hurrying  along.  She  held  in  her  arms  a  little 
girl  about  two  years  of  age,  while  a  fine  boy  a  year  older 
clung  to  her  hand.  She  bent  her  steps  to  the  Poste  res- 
tante,  and  inquired  in  an  eager  voice  for  letters.  The  mail 
from  England  was  not  yet  ready  for  delivery,  and  she  re- 
traced her  path  to  the  Rue  des  Lombards,  and  entered  a 
house  where  she  occupied  a  small  apartment.  The  room 
was  meanly  furnished,  destitute  of  every  accessory  of  lux- 
ury, deficient  almost  in  those  of  comfort  and  necessity 
One  article  only,  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  47 


appointments,  struck  the  eye  :  it  was  the  picture  of  a  gen- 
tleman, admirably  painted,  in  an  elaborately  embossed  gold 
frame,  suspended  over  the  fireplace  ;  on  it  the  gaze  of  the 
lady  instantly  fixed  itself. 

"  No  letter  yet  !  and  I  must  bear  another  intolerable 
hour  of  suspense  and  agony  !  God  give  me  strength  to 
endure  this  wretchedness,  and  keep  my  mind  from  frenzy  ! 
Oh,  Loftus  !  Loftus  !  in  mercy  write  to  me  !  "  And  in  an 
attitude  of  wild  supplication,  she  flung  herself  before  the 
picture,  while  the  hoarse,  choking  sob  of  anguish  convulsed 
her  frame/  The  children  gazed  on  her  with  that  affecting 
look  of  earnest  wonder  and  scrutiny  with  which  infancy 
ever  beholds  any  violent  exhibition  of  suffering.  The  little 
girl,  flinging  her  tiny  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  lisped 
in  broken  accents,  "  Oh,  dear  mamma,  do  not  cry  so — papa 
will  be  sure  to  come.  He  has  promised  little  Florence  a 
doll  from  England,  and  papa  must  not  tell  a  story,  must 
he,  my  own  mamma  ?  " 

"  No,  sweet  child,  he  ought  not — he  will  not.  Loftus, 
dear  boy,  what  hour  did  the  church  clock  chime  last  ? 
My  head  is  so  giddy  I  cannot  count  the  time." 

"  It  was  nine,  mamma." 

"  Then  the  letters  must  now  be  ready."  And  she  again 
hurried  with  her  children  to  the  post-office.  This  time  her 
application  was  successful.  She  received  a  large  packet  of 
letters,  tore  them  open  with  frantic  impatience,  read  them, 
staggered  a  few  paces  forward,  and,  with  one  loud,  piercing 
shriek,  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  apartments  which  I  occupied  in  the 
Hotel  Meurice,  in  Paris,  when  the  gar$on  came  bustling 


48  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 


into  the  room,  to  tell  me  that  an  English  lady,  as  her  dress 
and  contour  indicated,  had  fallen  in  a  fit  in  the  street. 
I  waited  not  to  ask  particulars,  but  hastened  forth. 
When  I  reached  the  spot,  I  found  that  she  had  been  con- 
veyed to  a  neighboring  surgeon's,  still  in  a  state  of  stupor. 
I  followed.  Those  about  her  were  using  stimulants  to  re- 
store her  to  consciousness.  Oh  that  return  of  consciousness  ! 
to  the  wretched  how  awful  is  it  !  For  a  while  we  refused 
to  believe  in  this  new  calamity  ;  we  would  fain  force  back 
the  dial  of  time,  and  make  it  point  where  it  did  only  one 
little  hour  ago  :  then  we  strive  to  wrestle  with  the  weight 
that  has  fallen  like  an  avalanche  on  the  mind  ;  we  seek  to 
hurl  it  from  us — to  walk  again  in  peace  and  freedom  :  vain 
effort  !  The  fiat  has  gone  forth  for  us  to  suffer,  and, 
though  every  heartstring  may  quiver  with  agony  in  the 
conflict,  we  cannot  flee  from  the  encounter. 

Branded  in  ineffaceable  characters  on  my  own  brain  is 
the  image  of  that  poor  young  creature,  as  I  entered  the 
shop  ;  she  was  slowly  recovering,  seated  on  a  low  stool,  her 
body  rocking  backward  and  forward  with  dull,  monotonous 
movements.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about  with 
a  quick,  restless  glance,  which  had  all  the  glare  of  de- 
lirium without  its  vacant  apathy.  She  shed  no  tears  ;  but 
a  gasp,  between  a  sob  and  a  groan,  occasionally  heaved  her 
bosom,  and  disturbed  the  muscles  around  her  small  exqui- 
sitely-chiselled mouth.  One  hand  was  pressed  tightly 
against  her  forehead  ;  in  the  other,  the  letters  she  had  re- 
ceived were  firmly  clenched,  and  the  surgeon  informed  me 
that  she  had  grasped  them  with  unrelaxing  tenacity,  dur- 
ing the  whole  time  of  her  swoon.  We  were  thus  left  in 
ignorance  of  the  origin  of  that  earthquake  of  passion,  be- 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  4S 

neath  whose  throes  she  had  sunk.  That  the  shock  had 
been  mental  there  could  be  little  doubt ;  and  this,  if  pos- 
sible, riveted  more  strongly  the  chain  of  interest  which  in- 
sensibly linked  me  to  her.  For  what  is  the  acutest  bodily 
pain  but  a  grain  in  the  balance  compared  with  the  intoler- 
able anguish  of  grief's  colossal  machinery,  playing  against 
the  heart  and  brain  ?  There  is  something  to  my  feelings 
inexpressibly  solemn  in  viewing  any  one  stricken  by  a  spe- 
cial visitation  of  Providence.  I  carry  out  my  sympathy 
even  to  inanimate  nature  :  I  never  look  upon  a  tree  scorched 
and  shrivelled  by  the  thunderbolt  from  on  high,  but  my 
attention  is  imperatively  arrested,  my  reflections  become 
sad  and  serious.  Its  companions,  perchance,  are  flourish- 
ing around,  still  revelling  in  the  sunshine,  still  tossing  their 
green  heads  to  catch  a  kiss  from  every  passing  breeze,  while 
it  stands  a  blasted  monument  of  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 
But,  when  the  victim  selected  for  punishment  is  taken  from 
my  own  order  of  intelligence,  when  I  see  a  being  before  me 
like  myself,  far  better,  it  may  be,  chosen  out  and  smitten 
to  the  earth  by  the  chastisement  of  Deity  while  I  stand 
unscathed,  my  sensibilities  are  aroused — how  keenly  ! — and 
my  soul  filled  alike  with  mysterious  wonder  and  humility. 
The  fair  creature  before  me,  what  had  she  done  to  be  thus 
afflicted  ?  Still  in  the  early  summer  of  existence,  gladness 
should  have  filled  her  breast,  bloom  freshened  on  her  cheek. 
Yet  she  lay  before  me,  crushed  and  wan,  with  the  succor 
of  strangers  only  to  support  her  from  without,  and  a  mine 
of  exhaustless  wretchedness  within  !  Why  was  this  ? 
We  cannot  fathom  the  inscrutable  purposes  of  the  Omni- 
potent ;  be  it  ours  to  acquiesce  in  them,  meekly  and  unre- 

3 


50  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 


piningly,  unquestioning  their  wisdom,  confident  in  theii 
mercy. 

To  still  the  passionate  cries  of  the  children  on  behold- 
ing the  state  of  their  mother,  they  had  been  taken  up 
stairs,  where  the  wife  of  the  surgeon,  with  that  ready  hu- 
manity which  French  women  possess  in  an  eminent  de- 
gree, was  caressing  them  into  silence.  But  their  mother 
was  now  restored  to  perception,  and  with  it  came  the  evi- 
dence of  their  absence.  With  strength  which,  in  contrast 
with  her  preceding  feebleness,  seemed  supernatural,  she 
sprang  from  her  seat,  pushed  aside  the  persons  who  were 
bending  over  her,  exclaiming,  in  a  voice  whose  tone  thrilled 
every  one  present,  "  My  children  !  my  children  !  where 
are  they  ?  "  They  were  quickly  placed  in  her  arms,  and 
an  hysteric  laugh  of  frightful  gaiety  greeted  their  appear- 
ance. She  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  placed  in  a 
fiacre,  and  driven  to  her  lodgings.  The  surgeon,  whose 
interest  in  her  was  only  less  intense  than  my  own,  insisted 
on  accompanying  her  ;  and  I  promised  at  his  suggestion 
to  visit  her  again  in  two  hours. 

I  lounged  in  the  interim  to  the  Louvre,  but  in  vain  did 
the  treasures  of  art  present  themselves  to  my  eye  ;  my 
every  thought  was  preoccupied  by  remembrance  of  the  scene 
I  had  witnessed.  The  form  of  the  lovely,  fragile  sufferer 
was  ever  before  me.  It  seemed,  too,  that  her  features  were 
familiar.  They  haunted  me  like  a  dream  of  the  past;  but 
identity  came  not  with  the  vision.  One  moment  I  fancied 
I  had  seen  her  in  the  Ionian  isles,  where  my  health  had 
obliged  me  to  pass  the  last  four  years,  and  from  which  I 
was  returning,  taking  Paris  en  route.  Then  again  she  re- 
called the  beautiful  Lady  Fitzgerald.  But  she  it  could 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  51 

scarcely  be,  for  though  no  accounts  of  her  had  reached  ine 
during  my  sojourn  in  Greece,  still  she  was  too  fixed  in  posi- 
tion to  associate,  even  in  possibility,  with  the  poor  faded 
being  I  had  lately  seen.  Yet  it  was  strangely  like  her, 
and  I  almost  regretted  that  I  had  obeyed  the  surgeon's 
order  to  retire  into  the  inner  shop  during  her  resuscitation, 
us  he  was  fearful  lest  the  presence  of  so  many  strangers 
might  exasperate  her  nervous  excitement  ;  otherwise  there 
would  have  been  opportunity  for  mutual  recognition.  But 
it  was  chimerical  to  suppose  this.  It  was  doubtless  one  of 
those  casual  resemblances  which  sometimes  come  across  us 
to  perplex  and  baffle  memory. 

I  returned  to  the  surgeon's  ;  he  had  just  arrived  from 
Mrs.  Gordon,  for  so  he  told  me  she  was  called.  He  gave  a 
fearful  report.  She  was  externally  calm  and  collected,  but 
his  experienced  eye  could  detect,  through  the  artificial 
trammels  she  had  placed  on  her  manner,  the  vehement 
struggle  of  the  inner  mind.  He  considered  her  tottering 
on  the  very  verge  of  insanity.  He  urged  me  instantly  to 
visit  her,  and  offer  the  plea  of  my  sex  and  country  to  in- 
duce her  to  confidence.  I  proceeded  to  her  residence,  and 
was  admitted.  At  sight  of  the  picture  of  Sir  Loftus  Fitz- 
gerald, which  hung  over  the  chirnney-piece,  I  literally 
stood  aghast,  for  it  all  but  determined  my  fears  that  it  was 
indeed  his  wife  whom  I  had  recently  seen. 

I  was  not  long  in  doubt.  She  entered  from  an  adjoin- 
ing room,  looked  at  me  with  surprise  and  earnestness,  called 
me  by  my  name,  and  burst  into  tears.  I  did  not  attempt  to 
stem  the  gush  of  feeling  from  which  I  hoped  for  relief  to 
her  overwrought  brain.  During  its  indulgence,  I  had  fpll 
leisure  to  observe  the  almost  miraculous  havoc  which  four 


32  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 

years  had  wrought  on  her  person.  She  was  thin  to  atten- 
uation; her  hair  was  banded  back,  and  showed  her  once 
fair,  round  cheek  hollow  and  sunken  ;  her  large,  lustrous 
eyes,  by  their  size  and  brilliancy,  seemed  to  make  yet  more 
conspicuous  the  ravages  of  suffering  in  the  rest  of  her  face. 
Her  brow  once  smoother  than  the  polished  marble, 
ploughed  by  the  furrows  of  care,  was  now  defaced  by  wrin- 
kles. Her  figure,  though  its  graceful  symmetry  nothing 
could  destroy,  retained  but  the  outline  of  its  former  per- 
fection. Even  her  hands,  once  so  remarkable  for  their 
beauty,  had  lost  their  fair  texture  and  delicate  plumpness, 
and  looked  thin,  feeble,  and  sickly.  Her  mouth  only  was 
that  of  other  days — a  model  of  expression  and  beauty. 

The  torrent  of  her  sorrow  ai:  length  found  pause  ;  and, 
well  divining  the  anxiety  which  devoured  me  to  learn  what 
vicissitudes  had  brought  thus  lowly  in  station  and  broken 
in  spirit,  one  whom  I  had  last  seen  surrounded  by  grandeur, 
beaming  with  felicity,  she  murmured  in  a  low,  indistinct 
voice,  "  You  must  indeed  wonder  to  see  me  thus.  It  is  a 
long,  wild  story :  will  you  listen  to  it  ?  It  is  well  that  some 
one  should  be  the  depository  of  my  wrongs  ;  and  I  thank 
Heaven  for  the  contingency  that  has  brought  you  near  me 
this  day.  The  hour  may  not  be  far  distant  when  my  be- 
loved children  may  want  a  protector/''  And  she  shuddered 
as  she  spoke.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  with  what  eagerness 
and  sincerity  I  offered  my  services,  or  with  what  variety  of 
emotion  I  listened  to  the  following  narrative. 

"  I  will  endeavor  to  be  brief  and  coherent  :  but  my 
head  is  strangely  confused.  You  know  that  immediately 
after  my  marriage,  we  proceeded  to  Milan.  A  few — a  very 
few  months  elapsed  before  the  conduct  of  Sir  Loftus  began 


FLORENCE   HOWARD.  53 


to  change.  All  his  love  and  devotion  were  gone,  and  suc- 
ceeded by  coldness  and  indifference.  You  know  my  tem- 
per is  not  violent — you  will  believe,  therefore,  that  I  bore  the 
alteration  uncomplainingly,  though  I  was  sick — how  sick  ! 
— at  heart.  My  station  in  society  compelling  me  to  be 
much  in  public,  we  were  necessarily  but  little  alone,  and 
that  little  he  abridged  by  every  device  in  his  power. 

"  This  continued  for  a  year.  I  became  the  mother  of 
that  boy.  His  unkinduess  amounting  to  inhumanity,  during 
my  illness,  even  my  attendants  commented  on.  Still  I  re- 
proached him  not  :  it  is  not  invective  that  will  restore 
affection.  We  left  Milan,  and  took  a  palazzo  at  Naples  ; 
and  here  " — (and  her  whole  frame  was  convulsed,  and  for  a 
while  she  was  unable  to  proceed),  "  here  it  was  the  abyss 
of  that  misery  opened  on  me  which  has  so  utterly  and  fa- 
tally ingulfed  me !  There  was  a  lady  at  Naples — Miss 
Lascelles  ;  I  thought  her  my  friend  ;  she  was  an  old  play- 
mate, and  I  rejoiced  to  see  her.  She  was  with  us  con- 
stantly, and  I  was  glad  at  the  attention  my  husband  paid 
her,  for,  poor  fool  that  I  was  !  I  believed  it  indirect  kind- 
ness to  myself.  But  soon  it  became  of  such  a  nature,  that 
it  had  been  degrading  to  myself  to  witness  it.  Hours — 
days  elapsed,  and  they  were  out  alone  together.  Oh  !  how 
I  shudder  when  I  think  what  burning,  maddening  mo- 
ments of  torture  I  counted  over  !  Passions,  more  fierce 
and  devastating  than  the  volcano  near  me,  raged  in  my  bo- 
som. I  knew  the  man  I  worshipped — may  God  forgive 
me  !  I  fear  with  sinful  idolatry — while  I  was  pacing  my 
lonely  chamber,  deserted  and  wretched,  was  caressing  ano- 
ther. Sometimes  I  imposed  on  myself  the  sight  of  this. 
It  was  less  intolerable  than  the  thick-thronging  fancies 


54  FLORENCE    HOWARD. 

which  swept  over  iny  brain  during  their  absence.  But  I 
could  not  long  bear  it.  The  intimacy  between  them  be- 
came matter  of  such  public  animadversion  that  I  forbade 
her  my  house.  From  that  hour  he  was  almost  a  stranger 
too.  Even  the  birth  of  his  little  girl  sufficed  not  to  draw 
her  from  his  side. 

"  At  this  time  a  new  and  singular  evil  threatened  me, 
the  realization  of  which  has  precipitated  me  from  affluence 
to  poverty.  A  claimant  to  the  estates  which  I  possessed 
made  his  appearance.  It  was  the  son  of  my  father  by  a 
woman  in  the  West  Indies.  I  knew  not  of  his  existence  ; 
but,  as  if  fate  had  determined  to  task  me  to  the  uttermost 
limits,  he  came  at  this  epoch.  I  cannot  explain — my  head 
is  too  bewildered — all  the  causes  which  had  kept  him  so 
long  away.  Enough  ;  he  produced  a  certificate  of  his 
mother's  marriage.  Sir  Loftus,  who  depended  so  much  on 
the  gratification  of  the  senses  for  enjoyment,  regarded  the 
menace  of  loss  of  wealth  with  peculiar  apprehension.  He 
met  the  claim  at  first  with  derision,  then  with  the  fixed 
determination  to  resist  it  to  the  utmost.  On  me  he  heaped 
every  species  of  abuse  and  violence,  accusing  me  of  having 
duped  him. 

"  The  man  withdrew  not  his  pretensions.  Leaving  me 
here,  Sir  Loftus  proceeded  to  England.  Legal  authorities 
were  consulted,  and  a  trial  followed,  in  which  the  jury 
awarded  a  verdict  to  our  opponent.  We  were  thus  in  a 
moment  given  over  to  poverty.  All  the  long  arrears  of  rent 
were  demanded.  The  property  which  had  accrued  to  me 
from  my  dear  mother's  death — how  often  have  I  blessed 
Heaven  that  she  lived  not  to  see  her  child's  sufferings  ! — 
availed  not  to  meet  this  :  my  jewels  were  sacrificed,  and  I. 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  55 

the  heiress  of  tens  of  thousands,  forced  to  employ  my 
musical  attainments  to  procure  subsistence  for  myself  and 
my  children. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  that  1  found  Sir  Loftus,  after  my 
marriage,  to  be  deeply  involved  in  debt  ;  and  he  had  long 
since  squandered  at  the  gaming-table  the  patrimony  which 
he  possessed.  He  returned  with  Miss  Lascelles  living 
openly  as  his  mistress.  I  saw  him  but  rarely — his  time 
was  divided  between  her  and  Frascati.  Yet,  even  yet,  I 
hoped  to  reclaim  him.  I  would  have  forgiven  him,  and  he 
had  been  dearer  to  me  in  poverty  than  wealth  :  but  it  was 
not  to  be.  With  what  delight  would  I  have  labored  for  him 
day  and  night,  if  his  smile  had  brightened  my  scanty  meal  ! 
Riches  I  did  and  could  surrender  unrepiningly  ;  but,  oh  ! 
the  idol  whom  I  could  have  prayed  or  defied  Heaven  for,  I 
could  not  renounce — him,  the  one  love  of  my  youth,  of  my 
life  !  With  all  his  frailties,  still  was  he  dear  to  my  fond 
heart — still  was  he  my  husband,  whom  I  had  knelt  with 
at  the  altar,  and  swore  to  obey  till  death.  I  fear  I  sinned, 
for  my  excess  of  love  has  brought  on  me  my  doom  of  woe. 

"  One  morning,  about  four  weeks  since,  he  received 
letters  from  England,  which  strangely  discomposed  him  : 
he  said  his  presence  was  instantly  necessary  in  London, 
and,  without  bidding  me  farewell,  without  one  kiss,  he  set 
oif  in  the  diligence/'  Here  she  became  so  fearfully  agi- 
tated that  I  urged  her  to  cease. 

"  No,  no,"  she  vehemently  answered  ;  "it  is  coming  to 
an  end — it  is  all  coming  to  an  end.  I  heard  nothing  till 
this  day.  I  had  letters — one  from  my  solicitor :  he  tells 
me  "  (and  she  grasped  my  hand  tightly,  while  her  wild 
haggard  looks  filled  me  with  alarm)  "  that — that  Sir  Lof- 


56  FLORENCE    HOWARU. 

tus  is  a  married  man — has  had  a  wife  and  family  for  years  ; 
and  I,  wretched  creature,  have  been  but  his  paramour  ! 
My  children,  my  poor  children,  they,  too,  will  have  the 
brand  of  infamy  stamped  on  their  brows — they  are  illegiti- 
mate !  "  And  her  ashen  cheek  became  streaked  with  a 
crimson  light. 

"  But  that  is  not  aV  ;  "  and  her  large  eyes  had  a  look 
of  fierce  despair,  and  she  shrieked,  rather  than  spoke,  the 
other  words  :  "  I  had  another  letter  ;  it  was  from  him,  my 
husband — oh,  no  ;  I  have  no  husband  !  I  was  but  his 
mistress.  He  wrote  from  Liverpool.  He  tells  me  that  he 
supposes  I  shall  commence  proceedings  against  him  ;  but 
he  cares  not,  for  he  is  sailing  for  America — and  not  alone  : 
she — the  woman — my  friend,  goes  with  him,  and  he  in- 
tends to  marry  her  as  soon  as  he  lands.  And  he  says  he 
never  loved  me — he  only  married  me  for  my  fortune  ;  and 
I  have  bartered  my  all  of  iiappiness  here,  perilled,  it  may 
be,  my  soul  hereafter,  for  one  who  never  loved  me.  How 
shall  I  live  ?  The  finger  of  scorn  will  point  at  me,  the 
laugh  of  derision  greet  my  approach.  Where  shall  I  hide  ? 
I  have  no  money,  no  character,  no  name  !  "  and  she  groaned 
aloud. 

For  some  time  I  had  watched  her  with  foreboding  ap- 
prehensions. As  she  uttered  the  last  words,  she  started 
up,  and  rushed  to  the  window,  and,  had  I  not  caught  her 
by  the  robe,  would  have  dashed  herself  into  the  street.  I 
seized  her  hand,  and  her  screams  were  heart-piercing. 
"  Off,  let  me  go  ;  I  will — will  die  !  "  The  violence  of  hei 
cries  brought  up  the  inmates  of  the  apartments  below.  It 
was  but  too  evident  that  her  senses  were  gone,  and  that 
strong  coercion  was  necessary.  I  sent  for  the  surgeon. 


FLORENCE    HOWARD.  57 

He  pronounced  her  immediate  removal  to  a  lunatic  asylum 
compulsory  ;  and,  when  the  night  of  that  eventful  day 
closed  over  her  unhappy  head,  she  was  an  inmate  of  La 
Salpetriere,  a  raving  maniac.  There  she  remains  to  this 
hour. 


58  THE   TRIAL   OF   HUSBANDS. 


IN  the  year  1789,  a  year  memorable  for  the  first  tremblings 
of  the  French  monarchy,  all  Milan  was  in  a  tumult  of  ano- 
ther kind — six  months  of  joyous  expectancy,  followed  by 
six  months  of  gay  gossip.  So  runs  the  world.  While  one 
half  of  it  is  looking  for  comets  and  convulsions,  battles  and 
bulletins,  the  other  half  is  thinking  of  balls  and  suppers. 
Every  royal  and  noble  head  in  France  was  pondering  how 
long  it  was  to  be  on  its  own  shoulders,  at  the  moment 
when  every  head  male  and  female  in  the  Grand  Duchy  of 
Milan  was  pondering  whether  velvet  or  silk  was  the  more 
captivating  ?  whether  the  Austrian  hat  with  gold  lace,  or 
the  Stbrza  bonnet  with  heron  plumes,  was  the  more  exqui- 
site ?  the  gentlemen  curling  their  raven  moustaches  into 
the  most  heart-touching  curls  ;  and  fifty  thousand  female 
bosoms  of  the  handsomest  dimensions  panting  with  the  am- 
bition of  fifty  thousand  Alexanders  for  the  conquest  of  all 
mankind. 

Bat,  what  was  the  spell  fixed  upon  all  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  Grand  Duchy  at  this  moment  ?     Those 
had  the  fortune  to  promenade  near  the  Governor'? 


THE   TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  59 

palace,  on  the  evening  of  the  1st  of  June,  might  have  formed 
some  remote  conception  of  the  cause.  There  was  an  un- 
usual crowd  in  front  of  the  superb  and  well-known  portal. 
The  multitude  were  making  merry  wt'th  all  the  merriment 
of  an  Italian  populace.  A  Tyrolese  mountebank,  attracted 
by  the  same  instinct  with  which  flies  are  attracted  to 
honey,  was  performing  his  wonders  in  the  great  square  ;  a 
group  of  Calabrese  dancers  were  figuring  under  the  strada 
of  the  colonnade  ;  a  party  of  pilgrims  returning  from  the 
Apennines  had  made  their  halt  to  see  a  little  of  the  world 
before  they  climbed  the  mountains  of  the  Tarentaise  ;  and 
a  huge  monk,  the  most  stupendous  of  his  species,  was  ha- 
ranguing from  a  little  portable  pulpit  on  the  vices  of  the 
age.  Gluttony  was  his  theme,  and  he  roared  out  ruin 
against  all  full-feeders  with  all  the  remaining  energy  of  a 
voice  stifled  with  good  living,  and  gesticulated  with  all  the 
animation  left  to  him  by  a  stomach  worthy  of  an  elephant. 
The  crowd  around  him  was  especially  gay.  They  aban- 
doned the  other  exhibitors  to  thin  audiences,  and  with  in- 
finite peals  of  laughter  pronounced  the  preacher  the  most 
capital  farceur  of  them  all. 

But,  as  the  twilight  of  that  luxurious  clime  began  to 
clothe  the  battlements  and  cupolas  in  violet,  the  signs  of 
high  festivity  became  more  conspicuous  in  the  Viceroy's 
mansion.  The  windows  began  to  blaze  with  illumination  ; 
rich  transparencies,  emblematic  of  the  combined  glories  of 
Austria  and  Italy,  now  covered  the  walls  ;  banners  spread 
their  embroidered  folds  upon  the  languid  and  dewy  wind. 
The  concourse  of  equipages  soon  poured  into  the  courts ; 
and  the  harmony  of  the  fine  orchestra  of  the  palace  was 
heard  performing  "  God  save  the  Emperor,"  a  sign  that  the 


60  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 


Viceroy  had  entered  the  salon,  and  that  the  ball  was  on 
the  point  of  beginning. 

Still  it  was  obvious  that  there  was  something  wanting. 
The  national  anthem  was  concluded  ;  a  pause  followed, 
the  anthem  was  renewed.  Some  one  was  clearly  waited 
for,  who  suspended  all  the  pleasures  of  the  fete.  At  last, 
a  distant  shout  told  that  a  personage  of  peculiar  impor- 
tance was  at  hand.  A  carriage  rushed  along,  with  four 
Barbary  horses  as  swift  as  stags,  and  with  one  of  the  royal 
couriers  in  front,  to  announce  the  coming  ;  and  the  glimpse 
which  the  last  gleam  of  day  allowed  of  its  inmate,  showed 
that  that  inmate  was  well  worth  waiting  for.  It  was  the 
equipage  of  the  Spanish  Ambassador ;  and  bore,  like  a 
triumphal  car,  his  lovely  daughter,  the  Senora  Carolina. 
Countess  of  Medina  Sidonia,  to  victory — victory  over  rival 
beauties  and  haughty  nobles,  over  knights  and  generals, 
over  statesmen  grown  old  in  the  harness  of  diplomacy,  and, 
as  universal  envy  declared,  over  the  grim  heart  of  the  Aus- 
trian Viceroy,  the  Archduke  himself.  A  flourish  of  trum- 
pets, as  the  young  beauty  ascended  the  magnificent  stair- 
case, followed  the  shout  which  the  populace  had  given,  as 
they  saw  this  far-famed  paragon  descending  from  her  car- 
riage. A  buzz  of  admiration  received  her  ou  her  entrance 
into  the  salon  de  danse  ;  and  the  smile  that  softened  the 
rigid  outlines  of  the  Viceroy's  iron  countenance  was  noted 
down  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  many  a  highborn  and  angry 
heart  for  retribution. 

Shall  we  describe  her  beauty  ?  It  is  impossible.  Who 
could  ever  describe  beauty  ?  The  color  of  a  lip  or  a 
cheek  may  be  described.  Even  the  glancings  of  a  fine 
eye  may  be  told.  But  what  shall  tell  the  union  of  mind 


THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  61 


and  feature,  the  electric  flash  of  the  soul  lighting  up  the 
countenance,  the  language  that  wants  no  words  to  express 
the  deepest  of  all  thoughts  ?  No  ;  that  is  impossible. 

Who  can  describe  what  none  can  define  !  A  look  pen- 
etrates the  soul  ;  a  feature  fixes  its  portrait  on  the  mem- 
ory for  ever ;  the  glance  of  a  moment  is  treasured  in  the 
heart  for  years  on  years.  How  are  those  lovely,  powerful, 
and  most  dangerous  of  all  things  to  be  transferred  to  the 
cold  and  slow  characters  of  the  human  hand  !  At  some 
future  time  man  may  have  the  faculty  of  transcribing 
them  ;  but  it  must  be  when  all  his  faculties  are  ethereal- 
ized,  when  he  can  speak  the  language  of  spirits,  when  his 
hand  can  stamp  the  image  of  his  thoughts  with  the  vivid- 
ness of  creation,  when  his  pen  flows,  penetrates,  and  flames 
with  the  brilliancy,  the  swiftness,  and  the  power  of  the 
lightnings. 

La  Carolina  was  young  ;  but  she  was  beyond  the  feeble 
girlhood  which  has  not  yet  combined  the  intellect  with  the 
countenance.  On  this  day  she  was  one-and-twenty.  Her 
intellect  lived  in  her  fine  features.  If  she  had  been  silent, 
moveless,  spellbound,  she  would  have  made  one  of  Ihe  love- 
liest pictures  of  the  rich  beauty  of  the  South.  But,  when 
was  she  ever  seen  thus  ?  When  she  spoke,  moved,  or 
looked,  there  was  but  one  imperfect  word  to  express  her 
animated  loveliness  ;  and  that  word  was  fascination. 

The  ball  was,  of  course,  superb.  The  Archduke's  at- 
tentions were  unremitting,  and  La  Carolina  received  them 
with  the  grace  and  ease  natural  to  her  rank,  and  the  con- 
sciousness that  it  was  the  natural  homage  to  her  beauty. 
Yet  there  were  times,  even  during  this  brilliant  fete,  when 
the  sparkling  of  her  eyes  lost  its  lustre,  her  cheek  had  a 


62  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

paler  tint,  and  she  seemed  to  forget  even  that  she  was 
dancing  with  the  brother  of  an  Emperor.  But  every  thing 
comes  to  a  close  in  this  world  ;  the  dawn  breaking  in 
through  the  high  casements  of  the  ball-room,  and  betray- 
ing the  artificial  colors  of  many  a  noble  cheek,  warned  the 
majority  that  a  speedy  retreat  was  indispensable.  Illus- 
trious mothers  and  daughters  wrapped  themselves  up  in 
their  shawls,  rushed  out  in  a  torrent  of  high  blood  and 
brilliants,  flung  themselves  into  their  equipages,  and  scat- 
tered away  to  all  points  of  the  horizon  like  ghosts  at  sun- 
rise. The  magnificent  halls  were  soon  as  empty  as  a  ca- 
thedral ;  last  came  the  Countess  de  Medina  Sidonia,  led 
down  the  staircase  by  the  Viceroy  himself,  surrounded  by 
an  emulous  cortege  of  nobles  and  militaires,  received  with 
a  shout  by  the  populace,  who  had  lingered  through  the  night 
to  see  her  departure,  and  then  whirled  away  by  her  four 
dashing  barbs  with  the  speed  of  a  vision.  It  was  the  next 
evening,  when  her  noble  father,  the  Duke  de  Medina,  en- 
tered her  apartment,  and,  with  an  animation  which  put 
his  ambassadorial  solemnity  in  considerable  danger,  ex- 
hibited to  her  the  fruits  of  the  night's  triumph.  Four  let- 
ters were  laid  by  him  on  the  table.  The  Duke  was  haughty 
by  habit,  pompous  by  office,  but  affectionate  by  nature. 
He  never  could  resist  a  smile  from  his  daughter  :  and  who 
could  resist  the  witchery  of  that  smile  ?  The  letters  bore 
the  crests  of  four  of  the  noblest  names  in  Italy — one  being 
the  Archduke's. 

"  My  dear  father."  asked  La  Ckrolina,  "  what  am  I  to 
do  with  those  formidable  papers  ?  I  thought  the  de- 
spatches were  meant  for  you." 

"  In  this  instance,  my  dear  girl,"  said  the  Ambassador, 


THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  63 

"  they  come  from  a  higher  court  than  ambassadors  have  any 
thing  to  do  with,  and  are  authorized  by  a  more  imperious 
commission.  They  are  direct  despatches  from  Cupid,  and 
sealed  with  the  hearts  of  the  Viceroy  of  the  Milanese,  and 
the  three  Counts  Calderone,  Castelli,  and  Barante." 

La  Carolina,  took  up  the  Archduke's  letter  ;  it  contained 
a  proposal  of  marriage.  She  handed  it  to  her  father,  with 
the  words  :  "  His  Highness  does  me  infinite  honor,  but  he 
dances  too  ill  for  me  ever  to  marry  him." 

"  Preposterous  !  "  said  the  grave  Ambassador. 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  La  Carolina,  "  that  the  Arch- 
duke, having  had  two  wives  already,  is  too  experienced  in 
the  ways  of  women  for  me  ever  to  have  the  control,  which 
I  think  essential  to  the  happiness  of  a  wife.  Another 
point  is,  that  he  is  something  older  than  my  dear  father, 
and,  as  I  never  loved  age  in  any  instance  but  one,  I  can 
never  expect  to  love  the  Archduke  ;  and  the  third  is,  that 
I  am  determined  not  to  have  him." 

The  Duke  remonstrated.  But  La  Carolina  had  one 
rrrow  still  in  store. 

"  My  dear  father,  my  Spanish  blood  will  not  suffer  the 
degradation.  If  the  Archduke  were  as  young  as- he  is  old, 
as  gay  as  he  is  grim,  and  as  witty  as  he  is  solemn,  I  should 
not  have  one  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg.  They  are  scarcely 
five  hundred  years  known.  Am  I  to  degrade  the  pedigree 
that  dates  from  the  Eomans,  the  line  of  Pelayo,  and  the 
true  heirs  to  the  crown  of  Spain,  by  an  alliance  with  a  fa- 
mily of  whom  the  wor.14  knows  nothing,  but  that  they  have 
thick  lips,  speak  Teutonic,  and  are  Emperors  of  Germany  ?  " 

The  arrow  hit  the  mark,  and  that  mark  was  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  proud  Spaniard's  soul.  The  Archduke's  lettei 


64  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

was  flung  into  the  fountain,  that  threw  up  its  sparkling 
waters  along  with  the  perfume  of  a  hundred  exotics  round 
the  young  beauty,  like  incense  on  the  shrine  of  an  idol. 
The  next  three  letters  were  then  discussed.  The  Count 
Calderone  first  came  under  inspection ;  he  was  a  Spanish 
grandee,  of  immense  fortune.  Castelli  was  a  Neapolitan, 
dated  his  descent  from  the  Norman  invaders  of  Sicily. 
Barante  was  a  Koinan,  with  a  pedigree  sufficient  to  over- 
whelm the  whole  Herald's  College,  and  crowded  with  car- 
dinals and  Cassars.  La  Carolina  made  but  a  single  remark 
on  them  all. 

'•'  Those  proposals,"  said  she,  "  would  be  quite  charm- 
ing, if  I  \vere  to  marry  pedigrees,  and  be  in  love  with  gen- 
tlemen's grandfathers." 

The  Ambassador,  however  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
tamed  on  the  present  occasion. 

"  You  act  unjustly  both  to  your  suitors  and  to  me  ;  a 
proposal  refused  without  a  reason  is  an  insult.  You  have 
seen  those  young  noblemen  where  noblemen  ought  to  be 
seen  ;  you  have  danced  with  them,  talked  with  them,  and, 
for  any  thing  I  can  tell,''  added  he  with  a  smile,  "have 
even  given  some  of  them  reason  to  think  that  you  thought 
them  very  captivating  fellows." 

"  That  I  deny,"  said  La  Carolina  coloring.  "  I  never 
stooped  so  to  honor  any  human  being.  The  admiration  was 
lost  on  me  ;  but  where  is  the  necessity  for  my  marrying  at 
all.  I  am  infinitely  happy  at  the  present  moment:  what  can 
be  more  cruel  than  to  take  the  bird  from  the  wing,  and 
put  it  in  a  cage  ?  I  have  every  enjoyment  that  life  can 
give,  and  I  cannot  discover  how  they  would  be  increased  ID 
the  slightest  degree  by  my  having  to  consult  the  frowns  of 


THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  65 


any  grandee,  count,  or  baron,  in  this  world  of  folly.  And 
why  may  not  I,  my  dearest  father, "  said  she,  fixing  her 
dark  eyes  swimming  with  sudden  tears,  on  his  softening 
countenance,  "  live  as  I  have  done  already,  be  like  the  bee, 
or  the  butterfly,  extracting  sweets  from  every  weed  of  life, 
or  fragrance  from  all  its  roses  ?  Let  me  but  remain  as  I 
am,  and  I  shall  not  have  a  wish  unfulfilled." 

"  The  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Duke  of  Medina 
Sidonia  must  marry,"  replied  the  grandee.  "  The  most 
illustrious  rank  of  Spanish  nobility  must  not  be  left  in  the 
hands  of  strangers.  I  must  see  my  daughter  the  head  of  a 
noble  house  ;  my  son-in-law  shall  be  the  man  on  whom 
you  will  fix  ;  he  shall  take  the  name  of  my  family,  and 
the  line  of  a  hundred  generations  shall  not  perish  through 
the  romance  of  a  young  lady,  who  thinks  herself  too  hand- 
some and  too  happy  to  do  her  duty  to  her  ancestry  and  to 
Spain." 

The  dialogue  continued  for  some  time,  the  young  beau- 
ty arguing,  and  the  statesman  being  still  more  determined. 

"  But,  my  dear  father,"  at  last  said  Carolina,  "  sup- 
pose that  the  whole  three  should  be  unworthy  of  your 
name,  that  they  should  be  guilty  of  the  follies  and  vices 
which  would  tarnish  your  honor,  and  that  the  only  result 
of  this  hasty  alliance,  should  be  regret  that  it  was  ever 
made." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  Ambassador,  "  the  whole 
three  are  not  likely  to  be  equally  involved.  Make  me  this 
stipulation,  that,  if  there  be  one  of  them  in  whom  you  can 
detect  neither  vice  nor  folly,  him  you  will  allow  me  to 
present  as  your  husband." 

"  But  suppose,  my  lord  duke,"   said  she,  "  that,  with 


66  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

all  his  virtues,  he  should  be  a  dull  bookworm,  or  a  bigot, 
will  you  not  allow  me  to  reject  him  ?  " 

"  Granted,"  said  the  father. 

The  tete-d-ttte  broke  up.  La  Carolina  adjourned  to 
ner  toilette,  to  receive  the  most  celebrated  modiste  of  Milan, 
with  the  most  tasteful  dress  ever  worn  at  court.  The 
Ambassador  went  to  his  closet  to  write  a  despatch,  settling 
the  next  election  to  the  Popedom. 

The  three  suitors  were  informed,  that  on  that  day  three 
months  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia  would  have  the  honor 
of  returning  a  definite  answer  to  their  proposals.  They 
were  alike  astonished,  indignant,  and  submissive.  The  will 
of  La  Carolina  was  as  little  to  be  contested  as  her  beauty. 
The  dialogue  between  the  fair  object  of  the  general  admi- 
ration and  the  Duke,  secret  as  it  was,  had  transpired,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  courts,  within  the  next  four-and- 
twenty  hours.  Before  the  week  was  over,  it  was  the  talk 
of  all  Italy,  and  the  "trial  of  husbands"  entered  so  much 
into  the  gay,  witty,  and  censorious  gossip  of  that  most  gos- 
siping of  all  countries,  that  the  three  suitors  must  have 
been  men  of  stone  or  steel  to  bear  it  ;  publicity  was  flung 
upon  them  like  a  shower  of  vinegar ;  they  went  with  all 
the  speed  of  post-horses  far  beyond  the  gates  of  Milan. 

The  Count  Calderone  was  a  lover  of  pleasure.  But  he 
had  the  singular  faculty  of  his  nation  of  concealing  all  his 
vices  under  an  air  of  gravity.  On  returning  to  Andalusia, 
he  sent  for  his  confessor,  determining  to  make  a  vow  for 
the  next  three  months  against  every  favorite  offence  of  his 
nature.  The  confessor  came,  and  the  expedient  proposed 
was  that,  by  the  assiduity  of  his  attendance  on  the  Count 


THE    TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  67 

he  should  be  enabled  to  give  credentials  of  conduct  capable 
of  satisfying  all  the  scruples  of  all  the  dukes  and  countesses 
of  Christendom. 

The  Count  was  an  habitual  gamester  ;  the  first  act  of 
his  confessor  was  to  make  a  formal  demand  of  all  the 
cards  and  dice  in  the  castle  ;  they  were  sealed  up,  and  the 
virtue  of  their  master  was  secure.  But  not  even  priests 
can  guard  against  accidents.  Before  the  week  was  out, 
the  confessor  was  thrown  from  his  mule,  and  received  a 
contusion  which  confined  him  to  his  bed.  The  melancholy 
news  was  brought  by  a  young  monk,  whom  the  reverend 
father  had  deputed  in  his  place  to  take  the  confession. 
The  young  monk  was  a  melancholy  object  of  conventual 
austerity  ;  his  countenance  was  the  very  color  of  the  clay 
which  the  fraternity  dug  every  morning  in  token  of  their 
graves  ;  his  frame  seemed  exhausted  with  watching,  his 
eyes  half  closed,  and  his  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper.  If 
maceration  of  the  flesh  were  virtue,  the  young  monk  was  a 
saint  already.  Calderone  looked  upon  him  with  compas- 
sion. When  the  confession  was  over,  and  the  certificate 
was  written,  he  pressed  him  to  take  some  refreshment. 
The  monk  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands  in  solemn  protes- 
tation. Water  was  his  sole  refreshment,  bread  his  luxury. 
He  tasted  slightly  of  both  and  withdrew.  The  Count  fol- 
lowed him  with  his  eyes,  as  he  moved  slowly  down  the 
wooded  steep  which  led  from  the  castle  into  the  lovely  and 
garden-looking  plain  ;  then,  turning  to  a  sumptuous  board, 
gave  himself  up,  like  a  true  epicurean,  to  the  pleasures  of 
the  table.  The  monk  renewed  his  visit  and  the  Count  his 
confession  weekly  for  a  month. 

"  I  am  weary  of  this,  "  said  the  Count  one  day  :  "  re- 


68  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

verend  father,  this  seclusion  is  horrible,  I  have  nothing  to 
confess  ;  now,  if  I  were  in  Milan,  the  matter  would  be  dif- 
ferent— I  should  probably  have  a  great  deal." 

"  Myson,"  said  the  monk, — "  for,  young  as  I  am,  I  am 
entitled  by  the  grace  of  our  church  to  call  you  so, — I  agree 
with  you  that  solitude  is  not  your  place.  Your  rank  is  made 
for  the  public  eye,  your  talents  are  made  for  public  life, 
and  your  virtues  are  now  so  far  confirmed,  that  you  might 
defy  all  the  temptations  of  the  earth  without  danger." 

The  Count  hesitated.  He  gazed  in  the  sallow  visage. 
'•'  Reverend  father,"  said  he,  "  I  have  known  a  good  deal  of 
the  world  in  my  time,  and  for  one  man  ruined  by  timidity 
I  have  known  a  hundred  undone  by  presumption.  Besides, 
I  have  but  two  months  more  to  wait.  No  !  I  shall  not  go 
to  Milan." 

"  Wisely  thought  of,"  said  the  monk  ;  "  and  yet,  my 
lord,  vigorous  minds,  like  yours,  are  entitled  to  despise  the 
common  fears  of  mankind.  The  man  who  in  a  solitary 
castle  achieves  virtue,  is  only  like  the  prisoner  who  in  his 
dungeon  does  not  abuse  liberty.  The  reason  is,  beause  he 
cannot  help  it.  Monk  as  I  am,  I  say  that  such  is  the  chief 
virtue  of  our  monks  ;  but  a  Spanish  noble  and  soldier 
conquering  temptation,  in  the  most  tempting  city  in  the 
world,  has  gained  a  laurel  which  he  may  lay  at  the  feet  of 
the  proudest  beauty  of  the  earth,  and  proclaim  himself  a 
conqueror." 

Next  morning  the  monk  received  a  message  from  Cal- 
derone,  stating  that  he  had  received  letters,  which  made  it 
of  the  highest  importance  that  he  should  immediately  re- 
turn to  Milan,  and  of  course,  dispensing  with  the  services 
of  the  reverend  father  for  the  time. 


THE   TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  69 

The  Count  Castelli  had  spent  the  interval  in  a  different 
way.  Indolent  by  nature,  he  was  incapable  of  the  rigid 
determination  of  Lis  rival  ;  he  sent  for  no  confessor,  but, 
hiring  a  villa  near  Portici,  collected  round  him  a  bevy  of 
actors  and  opera-singers,  with  whom  he  gave  little  dra- 
matic fetes,  enjoyed  pleasure  parties  on  the  water,  and  em- 
ployed all  his  abilities  to  kill  the  tedious  time.  From  one 
vice,  however,  he  was  exempt  ;  the  love  of  wine  is  not  a 
Neapolitan  propensity,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  gayeties 
of  life,  he  was  untouched  by  the  temptations  of  Bacchus. 
But  his  delight  in  the  drama  was  excessive  ;  the  interludes 
performed  by  the  Neapolitan  peasants  are  sometimes  re- 
markable for  their  humor  ;  and  one  evening,  as  he  was  re- 
turning to  his  villa,  he  found  the  avenue  blocked  up  by  a 
crowd  of  the  populace,  laughing,  talking,  and  gesticulating, 
in  the  highest  possible  state  of  enjoyment.  A  fellow,  per- 
sonating a  Dalmatian  mountebank,  was  performing  his 
pantomime  on  a  temporary  stage  erected  in  front  of  the 
mansion.  His  figure  was  extraordinary  ;  he  seemed  bent 
to  the  ground  with  age,  yet  his  springs  and  dances  recalled 
those  of  a  monkey  in  his  native  forest,  and  he  wreathed 
his  deformed  frame  with  the  flexibility  of  a  serpent.  His 
humor  was  equally  singular.  Speaking  the  patois  to  per- 
fection, he  carried  on  a  running  fire  of  dialogue  with  the 
populace,  by  which  he  made  so  many  hits  at  the  national 
absurdities,  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  and 
even  the  sacred  persons  of  the  monks  themselves,  that  the 
multitude  were  kept  in  a  continual  roar.  Castelli  stopped 
his  chariot  and  listened,  until  night  fell,  and  like  a  curtain 
covered  the  performer,  the  audience,  and  the  stage.  The 
Count  had  a  supper  party  that  night  ;  the  pantomimisfc 


70  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 


was  taken  into  his  carriage,  and  brought  home  with  him  as 
a  choice  novelty  of  the  evening.  But,  if  he  had  amused 
the  populace,  he  still  more  amused  the  party ;  he  spoke 
half  a  dozen  patois  of  half  a  dozen  languages  ;  touched 
half  a  dozen  instruments,  if  not  with  perfection,  at  least 
with  skill ;  told  piquant  anecdotes  of  half  a  dozen  courts  ; 
and,  but  for  the  hideous  ugliness  of  his  countenance,  would 
have  made  half  a  dozen  conquests  among  the  beauties  of  the 
supper  table,  probably  to  be  rewarded  by  as  many  swords  in 
his  midriff,  from  the  hands  of  their  acknowledged  lovers. 

The  evening  was  too  delightful  not  to  be  repeated. 
The  presence  of  the  pantomimist  became  as  necessary  as 
lamps  to  a  theatre  ;  politics  to  superannuated  bachelors  ; 
a  circle  of  listeners  to  a  professed  wit ;  a  handsome  con- 
fessor to  ladies  who  have  once  been  handsome  themselves  ; 
cards  and  cardinals  to  royal  mistresses  turned  devotees ; 
scandal  and  champagne  to  the  flatness  of  high  life  ;  showers 
of  billets-doux  to  refresh  the  fading  sympathies  of  exhausted 
belles  ;  ribbons,  orders,  and  the  opera,  to  counts  and  kings 
— or,  last  and  first,  his  mirror  to  the  gay  and  showy  Count 
Castelli,  whose  daily  investigation  satisfied  him  that  wrin- 
kles might  be  kept  at  a  much  greater  distance  by  due  skill, 
than  many  of  his  less  polished  contemporaries  supposed. 

A  succession  of  frolics,  such  as  only  Neapolitans  can  in- 
vent or  perhaps  enjoy,  drove  ennui  to  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance. Yet  one  evening  the  pantomimist  was  actually 
caught  in  the  fact  of  committing  a  tremendous  yawn  ! 
The  whole  circle  stared.  He  had  never  been  in  higher 
oddity.  He  denied  the  charge  with  his  usual  address. 
But  eyes  and  ears,  however  unbecoming  it  may  be  to  use 
Buch  things  at  court,  are  much  confided  in  and  consider- 


THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 


ably  used  in  private  society.  The  charge  was  proved. 
And  the  gayest  of  all  grimaciers  was  so  much  overpowered 
by  the  proof,  that  he  was  almost  dull  for  the  evening. 

This  was  not  to  be  borne.  Castelli  summoned  him  to 
a  private  audience,  and  at  length  wormed  the  secret  out  of 
his  soul. 

"  All  is  delightful  here,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  he, 
with  strong  symptoms  of  the  fatal  yawn  again.  But  va- 
riety is  charming  ;  I  have  been  here  a  week  already." 

"  But  I  have  been  here  two  months,"  said  the  Count, 
"  and,  what  is  worse,  have  to  remain  here  a  month  more." 

"  And  what  power  on  earth,"  said  Monsieur  Allegranti, 
pleasant est  of  men  and  mimes,  "  could  have  compelled  you 
to  such  a  horrid  necessity  ?  " 

"  The  power  that  compels,  alike,  the  beggar  and  the 
king  ;  a  woman,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  must  remain  here 
on  my  good  behavior  for  three  mortal  months  ;  or  beyond 
getting  into  some  of  those  abominable  scrapes  into  which 
youth,  fortune,  and  good  looks  are  continually  leading  a 
man  in  courts  and  cities." 

The  Count  spoke  the  speech  in  front  of  a  huge  Vene- 
tian mirror,  which  gave  him  smile  for  smile.  The  Mime 
laughed  in  his  face,  and,  with  a  keen  sparkle  of  his  singu- 
larly sparkling  eyes,  said,  "  Well,  Monsieur,  as  I  am  not 
under  a  vow  to  play  the  hermit,  I  shall  make  my  way  to 
tlie  first  city  I  can  find.  As  for  the  woman  in  question — 
trust  me,  I  know  the  sex  tolerably — and,  if  she  is  a  daugh- 
ter of  Eve,  she  will  think  ten  times  as  often  of  you,  if  she 
hears  that  you  have  been  so  unable  to  abide  the  agonies  of 
absence,  that  you  are  in  the  next  street  to  her,  playing  all 
kinds  of  frolics — the  maddest  of  which  she  will  invariably 


72  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

set  down  to  passion  for  herself — than  if  you  lived  like  a 
sheep  upon  one  of  your  hills,  or  wore  a  head  the  length  of 
St.  Dominic's.  To-morrow  I  march  for  Milan,  where  I 
have  an  engagement  to  play  at  the  opening  of  the  opera 
house.  La  Scala  for  ever  !  " 

To-morrow  saw  the  Count's  establishment  scattered, 
like  so  many  doves  from  the  dovecot ;  and  a  large  group  of 
its  fairest  joining  with  him  in  the  conviction  that  to  live 
out  of  the  sounds  of  the  violins  and  pirouettes  of  that  mag- 
nificent salle  d'  opera,  was  one  of  the  impossibilities  of  this 
world. 

The  Count  Barante  was  a  diplomatist.  And  he  had 
taken  his  measures  with  professional  sagacity.  By  bribing 
the  favorite  domestic  of  La  Carolina,  he  had  obtained  a 
knowledge  of  all  her  movements  ;  and,  as  the  movements 
of  a  woman  and  a  beauty,  are  not  quite  so  regular  as  those 
of  the  Copernican  system,  he  had  contrived  to  puzzle  himself 
to  the  most  hopeless  degree.  He  was  informed  that  she 
received  letters,  visits,  and  persons.  On  each  and  all  the 
diplomatist  hung  conclusions.  He  must  return  from  Rome. 

But  the  young  and  lovely  Countess  seemed  made  to 
perplex  calculation,  as  much  as  she  charmed  hearts,  and  he 
soon  found  that  to  i:atch  a  serpent  by  the  tail,  or  to  extract 
sunbeams  from  the  rose,  was  an  easy  task  compared  with 
the  daily  problems  supplied  by  the  loveliest  creature  in  the 
world.  But  to  investigate  these  bewitching  difficulties  was 
impossible  at  that  distance.  And  the  dexterous  Count 
had  found  the  means  of  a  public  mission  to  the  Court  of 
Milan.  But  a  month  remained. 

The  story  of  his  rivals  was  perfectly  known  to  him  ;  for 


THE   TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  *73 

what  must  not  be  known  to  a  person  of  so  much  sagacity, 
and  with  so  much  secret  service  money  at  his  disposal  ? 
He  knew  that  Calderone  had  returned  incognito  from  Spain, 
and  was  employing  his  leisure  hours  at  one  of  the  most 
private  gaming-houses  in  the  city.  He  had,  in  person,  too, 
been  present  at  a  private  masquerade,  where  Castelli,  be- 
tween love  and  wine,  had  performed  some  antics  worthy  of 
the  galleys. 

Time  is  tardy  to  every  man  who  expects  any  thing,  ex- 
cept to  the  man  who  expects  to  be  hanged.  But  even  to 
the  fortune-hunter,  tardiest  of  all,  he  still  gets  over  the 
course.  The  three  months  came  to  an  end.  A  week  before 
their  close,  Barante  waited  on  the  Duke.  Ambassador 
with  ambassador,  the  formalities  of  diplomacy  were  prac- 
tised with  the  usual  gravity.  But  when  the  first  parade 
was  over,  and  they  began  to  talk  common  sense,  the  Baron 
stated  in  decisive  words  that  the  fair  Carolina  naturally 
fell  to  his  lot,  if  she  was  to  wed  neither  a  gamester  nor  a 
Bacchanal — "  both  my  supposed  rivals,"  said  the  Count, 
with  a  glance  of  triumph,  "  sustaining  those  characters  in 
the  most  approved  style." 

"  Very  extraordinary  !  "  said  the  Duke,  "  for  if  there 
were  any  two  noblemen  in  Italy  untouched  by  those  vices, 
I  should  have  pronounced  the  Counts  Calderone  and  Cas- 
telli to  have  been  the  men." 

"  You  shall  have  proof,"  was  the  answer.  "  Do  me  the 
honor  to  come  to  a,  fete  at  the  palace  -of  the  Roman  legation 
on  this  day  week,  and  your  Excellency's  eyes  shall  have 
full  conviction.  Should  the  Lady  Carolina  do  me  the  ho- 
nor to  grace  our  party,  my  pleasure  and  her  proof,  too,  will 
be  complete." 
4 


74  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 


The  evening  came  ;  the  fete  was  showy.  "  All  the 
rank,  beauty,  and  fashion  of  Milan,"  in  the  court  phrase, 
"  were  assembled."  The  time  of  the  probation  had  expired, 
and  the  Counts  Calderone  and  Castelli  were  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  for  their  dress,  address,  and  jewels.  The 
Count  Barante  had  the  higher  excitement  in  his  counte- 
nance and  figure,  of  hope  assured.  The  Duke  of  Medina 
Sldonia  figured  in  all  his  brilliants  of  every  order  of  Spain 
and  Italy — a  walking  effigy  of  diamonds  and  ribbons.  But 
he  had  by  his  side  a  brilliant,  than  which  no  man  had  ever 
worn  a  brighter  on  his  bosom  ;  hisvdaughter,  La  Carolina, 
magnificently  attired,  looking  lovelier  than  ever  ;  and,  to 
the  surprise  of  all  who  knew  the  history  of  the  rivals,  her 
fate,  and  the  evening,  looking  the  very  picture  of  unem- 
barrassed beauty.  This  produced  a  prodigious  variety  of 
conjectures. 

Women  of  the  first  fashion  are  not  always  the  first  to 
be  embarrassed  at  any  thing  ;  and  there  were  belles  pre- 
sent, and  very  handsome  ones,  too,  who  might  have  pro- 
tested against  being  charged  with  a  blush  of  surprise  or 
sensibility  since  their  cradle.  But,  a  night  on  which  their 
fate  was  notoriously  to  be  decided  ! — a  night  on  which  de- 
pended a  residence  for  life,  and  whether  that  residence  was 
to  be  in  Andalusia,  Naples,  or  Borne  ! — a  night  on  which 
depended  whether  one's  "  Cavalieri  serventi "  were  to  be 
solemn  Spaniards,  brisk  sons  of  the  Campagna  Felice,  or 
cardinals,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  of  accidents  ;  all  the 
considerations  that  make  matrimony  a  business  of  thought 
might  be  expected  to  have  given  the  dazzling  physiognomy 
of  La  Carolina  at  least  the  air  of  thinking.  And  this  was 
the  more  likely,  from  her  having  been  occasionally  seen  at 


THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  75 

Dther  times  to  look  the  picture  of  irresolution ;  her  splendid 
eye  suffused  with  sudden  dimness,  her  cheek  like  an  autum- 
nal rose,  her  words  like  those  of  a  mind  straying  far  away 
from  the  showy  circle  round  her,  and  touching  on  deep  and 
involuntary  remembrances  of  remote  lands,  and  years  past 
and  gone. 

But  on  this  night  all  was  the  extreme  of  the  contrast. 
Not  a  shade  passed  over  the  brightness  of  her  brow  ;  she 
danced,  smiled,  and  spoke  with  equal  animation :  the 
Archduke  hovered  round  her  once  more,  and  the  three 
rivals  silently  agreed  that  in  the  possession  of  this  capti- 
vating being  he  should  be  master  of  a  prize  worthy  to  ex- 
cite the  rivalry  of  Archdukes.  At  length  the  grand  busi- 
ness of  the  night  commenced,  which,  in  every  land,  is  the 
supper.  The  Archduke  led  La  Carolina  to  the  seat  of  ho- 
nor, a  distinction  which  inflamed  the  bosom  of  every  fair 
lady  present  against  the  lady,  and  added  to  the  old  unpop- 
ularity of  Austrian  dominion  amongst  the  gentlemen 
The  supper  was  superb  ;  all  the  virtuosi  of  Milan  filled  the 
orchestra,  arid  Banti,  then  the  most  exquisite  singer  in  the 
world,  poured  her  mellifluous  strains  like  another  nightin- 
gale through  the  pauses  of  the  harmony.  But  even  the 
fairest  of  the  fair  will  grow  weary  of  wit  and  iced  cham- 
pagne ;  the  strains  of  Banti  ceased,  the  chariots  were  or- 
dered to  the  door,  the  Ambassador  and  La  Carolina  were 
already  bowing  their  way  out  of  a  circle  of  retiring  nymphs 
and  statesmen,  when  Barante  came  up  and  whispered  in 
his  Excellency's  ear,  "  Now  for  the  proof !  " 

He  touched  a  spring  in  the  wall,  and  the  Duke  and  his 
daughter  found  themselves  in  a  small  apartment,  with  two 
Dr  three  dresses  thrown  upon  the  chairs.  "  Will  your 


76  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 


Excellency  and  the  Countess,"  said  Barante,  "  condescend 
to  put  on  these  disguises  for  a  moment,  and  follow  me  ?  " 
He  then  led  the  way  through  a  suite  of  chambers  to  a  low 
recess,  hidden  by  a  curtain. 

"  Here,  your  Excellency,  you  will  see  one  of  the  suitors 
for  the  hand  of  this  fair  lady.  You  dislike  the  character 
of  a  gamester,  I  presume  ?  Here  see  the  Count  Calderone, 
who  professed  such  abhorrence  of  this  vice,  engaged  with  a 
set  of  the  most  desperate  gamesters  in  Milan.  I  marked 
him  returning  from  the  supper  table,  with  some  characters 
like  himself ;  the  palace  of  the  embassy,  your  Excellency 
knows,  has  communication  with  several  of  the  surrounding 
casinos,  and  you  will  find  that  the  Cavalier  Calderone, 
unable  to  restrain  his  most  dangerous  propensity,  even 
with  so  high  a  prize  before  him,  is  now  deep  in  play.  You 
will  have  only  to  use  your  own  eyes." 

La  Carolina  drew  back.  But  the  Duke,  observing  to 
her  that  their  dominos  perfectly  concealed  the  persons  of 
both,  led  her  forward.  Two  or  three  groups  were  seen  en- 
gaged in  play.  At  last,  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  dim 
apartment,  they  observed  Calderone,  his  face  convulsed 
with  agitation,  and  his  hands  grasping  the  dice-box  in  the 
nervous  agony  of  a  man  who  was  on  the  point  of  throwing 
his  last  stake.  He  threw,  glanced  at  the  dice,  and  ex- 
claimed that  he  was  undone.  At  that  moment  the  Duke 
advanced.  Calderone  looked  up  in  astonishment  and  hor- 
ror as  the  Duke  drew  the  mask  from  his  face,  and  stood 
transfixed  at  the  consciousness  of  the  discovery.  His  anta- 
gonist in  the  game  had  fled. 

"  You  see  now  !  "  said  Barante.  And  before  the  Span- 
iard could  recover  from  the  surprise,  the  group  had  passed 


THE   TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  77 

into  another  apartment.  The  scene  here  was  of  a  different 
order.  It  was  one  of  carousal.  At  the  head  of  a  small 
table,  surrounded  by  faces  flushed  with  intoxication,  sat 
Castelli,  preparing,  goblet  in  hand,  to  answer  the  challenge 
given  to  him  by  one  of  the  company,  to  drink  a  bottle  of 
cnarnpagne  at  a  draught,  in  honor  of  the  "  fair  Countess  of 
Medina  Sidonia."  The  handsome  features  of  the  bon- 
vivant  were  evidently  fevered  by  the  excesses  of  the  night. 
La  Carolina  shuddered  as  she  saw  him  take  the  goblet  in 
his  hand,  and  fill  it  to  the  brim.  Startled  at  seeing  so 
hideous  a  spectacle  of  voluntary  idiocy,  she  would  have 
almost  implored  him  to  lay  it  down  ;  but  in  the  next  mo- 
ment the  Count,  lisping  out  her  name  in  accents  of  con- 
firmed intoxication,  put  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  swallowed 
it,  und  after  an  imperfect  attempt  either  to  speak  or  stand, 
fell  back  senseless  in  the  chair. 

"  This  is  my  abstemious  rival,"  said  Barante.  "  I  pre- 
sume, my  lord  duke,  the  trial  is  complete  ?  Let  us  leave 
this  scene  of  abomination.  My  gondola  is  on  the  canal." 

They  embarked,  landed,  and  passed  into  an  apartment 
whose  coolness  and  elegance  formed  a  striking  contrast  to 
the  scenes  which  they  had  left  behind.  La  Carolina, 
pained  and  exhausted,  threw  herself  into  a  seat  by  the  case- 
ment, which  let  in  the  delicious  air  of  the  garden.  There 
was  now  but  one  stranger  in  the  room ;  a  figure  dressed  in 
the  costume  of  the  Koman  embassy.  "  I  demand,"  said 
the  Count,  "  the  performance  of  your  Excellency's  promise, 
the  hand  of  the  Countess  Carolina."  His  Excellency 
looked  at  the  stranger  sitting  at  the  table.  "  He  will  be 
no  hindrance  to  our- communication,"  said  Barante;  "he 
is  only  my  secretary,  and  is  indeed  come  here  by  my  own 


78  THE    TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS. 

request  to  settle  all  the  preliminaries  of  the  important 
transaction  between  us." 

The  secretary  suddenly  raised  his  head  from  some  oc- 
cupation which  he  was  busily  pursuing,  and  on  being  in- 
troduced to  his  Excellency,  apologized  for  not  having  per- 
ceived him  before,  owing  to  the  nature  of  his  occupation. 
"  I  have  been  copying,"  said  he,  "  some  verses,  which  per- 
haps his  Excellency  would  wish  to  see,  as  they  are  in  ho- 
nor of  the  illustrious  lady  his  daughter." 

"  Ah  !  then  you  write- verses  ?  "    said  the  Duke. 

"  I  have  not  that  honor,"  said  he  ;  "  the  subject  is  too 
high  for  me — they  are  the  Count  Barante's." 

"  What  !  the  Count  an  author  ?  "  said  the  Duke. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  secretary  ;  "he  has  devoted  himself, 
within  the  last  month,  to  the  art  of  poetry,  and  produced 
several  exquisite  sonnets  on  the  charms  of  the  Countess  of 
Medina  Sidouia." 

During  this  dialogue,  Barante  had  approached  the 
lady,  and  poured  out  his  compliments,  delicately  giving 
way  for  his  panegyric  at  the  table  ;  where  the  Duke  was 
poring  earnestly  over  a  succession  of  lines  ;  and,  if  the 
physiognomy  of  an  ambassador  was  ever  made  to  tell  any 
thing,  surprise,  contempt,  and  anger,  successively  passed 
over  his  features.  At  length  she  heard  the  murmured 
words, — "  Detestable  stuff  ! — Who  could  ever  have  thought 
that  the  man  was  such  a  fool  ! — Meagre  conception  ! — 
Deplorable  nonsense  !  "  The  sonnets  were  successively 
thrown  upon  the  table. 

"  Those  performances  may  not  suit  your  Excellency's 
taste,"  said  the  secretary,  in  a  low  tone.  "  But  to  so  emi- 
nent an  authority  in  diplomatic  literature,  I  have  the  honoi 


THE    TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  79 

of  submitting  in  this  paper  a  criticism  by  the  Count  on 
an  anonymous  volume,  entitled  '  The  Alliance  of  Spain  and 
the  Popedom,'  which  has  so  lately  appeared,  that  it  may 
possibly  have  escaped  your  Excellency's  notice." 

The  Duke's  bosom,  rigid  as  it  was  by  the  formalities 
of  sixty  years,  yet  throbbed  with  sudden  sensitiveness  ;  for 
what  girl  at  her  first  ball,  boy  on  his  first  school  day,  or  aide- 
de-camp  on  his  first  mounting  the  staff  coat  and  feather, 
ever  equalled  the  mingling  of  rapture  and  fear  that  thrill 
through  the  most  veteran  maker  of  books  at  the  sound  of 
one  of  his  own  productions  ? 

The  Duke's  feelings  were  not  long  kept  in  suspense. 
The  criticism  was  a  labored,  acute,  and  contemptuous 
attack  on  all  the  statements,  arguments,  and  principles  of 
his  volume.  The  publication,  as  being  without  the  Duke's 
name,  had  been  handled  as  the  work  of  some  hired  scrib- 
bler, whom  Barante  recklessly  described  as  equally  destitute 
of  truth,  sense,  and  information.  The  blood  of  the  Span- 
iard might  be  hot,  the  pride  of  the  grandee  might  flame, 
but  the  wrath  of  the  author  was  a  burst  of  lava.  When 
was  it  otherwise  ? 

Walking  over  to  the  astonished  Roman,  criticism  in 
hand,  he  charged  him  with  a  deliberate  intention  to  insult 
his  honor  as  a  member  of  the  diplomatic  body,  and  .his  feel- 
ings as  a  man.  The  outbreak  was  tremendous.  The  sec- 
retary was  sought  for  by  the  vengeful  eye  of  Barante. 
But  he  had  been  wise  in  time,  and  disappeared. 

The  Count  was  not  a  man  to  swallow  the  whole  tor- 
rent of  scorn.  Swords  were  drawn,  and  the  screams  of  the 
Countess,  the  rush  of  ths  servants  to  the  door,  and  the  ge- 
neral tumult,  aroused  the  whole  population  of  the  palace 


80  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

Amongst  the  rest  came  in  Calderone  and  Castelli.  The 
warlike  part  of  the  affair,  of  course,  could  not  now  be  pro- 
ceeded in  :  but  recrimination,  wonder,  and  inquiry  supplied 
its  place  with  clamor  enough.  The  Counts  finally  and 
severally  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  they  had  been  ca- 
lumniated in  the  grossest  possible  manner,  besides  being 
betrayed  on  that  particular  night  into  situations  and  cir- 
cumstances of  which  it  was  perfectly  impossible  to  account, 
except  by  intolerable  perfidy,  or  palpable  magic. 

Ambassadors,  profound  as  they  are,  may  be  puzzled  ; 
and  the  Duke  of  Medina  Siclonia  himself  seemed  to  be  ex- 
tremely in  this  predicament,  when  the  door  opened  and  a 
monk  walked  into  the  midst  of  the  declaimers.  The  effect 
on  Calderone  was  electric.  "  Will  the  Count  Calderone," 
said  the  ecclesiastic,  in  a  solemn  tone,  "  venture  to  deny 
that  his  favorite  vice  is  gaming,  his  favorite  game  hazard, 
and  that  no  farther  back  than  this  evening  he  staked  his 
last  ducat  on  the  die  ?  " 

"  Villain  !  you  tempted  me,  first  and  last,"  was  the  only 
exclamation  of  the  astounded  Spaniard. 

"  There,"  said  the  monk,  unfolding  a  paper,  "  give  up 
your  pretensions  to  this  lady,  and  I  give  up  the  bond  for 
the  surrender  of  your  estates."  Calderone  nervously  grasped 
at  the  paper,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

The  monk  next  fixed  his  full,  dark  eye  on  Castelli. 
The  Count  was  now  sobered,  and  his  stern  look  repaid  the 
gaze  with  fierce  defiance.  "  Monk,"  said  he,  "  I  know  your 
tribe.  You  may  play  tricks  with  fools  and  cowards,  like 
the  blockhead  whom  you  have  just  frightened  out  of  the 
room,  but  beware  of  knavery  with  me.  I  solemnly  declare 
before  this  company  that  I  have  never  seen  the  fellow's 
mortified  visage  before." 


THE    TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  81 

A  smile  passed  over  the  monk's  features  as  he  drew  the 
cowl  from  his  head,  and  threw  a  glance  in  the  Count's  eyes. 
"  The  Punchinello,  corpo  di  Baccho  ! "  exclaimed  the  Count, 
suddenly  bursting  into  a  roar  of  rage.  "  Scoundrel  of 
scoundrels,  what  brought  you  here  ?  Allegranti  himself, 
or  II  Diavolo  ?  " 

The  monk  made  no  other  reply  than  twisting  his  fea- 
tures into  another  grimace,  which  actually  convulsed  the 
Count  with  laughter.  "  Stop,"  he  cried,  "  for  the  sake  of 
St.  Januarius,  stop,  or  I  shall  die.  Diavolone,  if  you  make 
such  another  face  again,  I  shall  have  you  assassinated 
for  finishing  the  days  of  a  nobleman." 

The  whole  room  joined  in  the  laugh,  as  the  monk, 
slowly  turning  round  the  group,  gave  them  all  an  evidence 
of  his  extraordinary  talent. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  at  length  said  Castelli,  in  a  voice 
exhausted  with  convulsive  merriment,  "  I  have  nothing  to 
say  in  the  way  of  excuse.  You  see  what  this  rascal  is. 
He  would  tempt  St.  Anthony  to  run  away  with  St.  Brid- 
get, or  make  St.  Francis  drink  like  a  fish.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Let  me  say  but  another  word.  He  tempted  me  from  my 
beverage  of  oranges  and  iced  water  to  champagne  and 
chambertin.  In  his  pleasantries  I  forgot  this  lady,  myself, 
and  the  world.  I  arn  fit  only  to  be  a  bon-vivant,  and  if  the 
villain  will  only  come  and  dine  with  me  once  a  week  I  shall 
make  him  my  heir,  provided  he  does  not  kill  me  with  laugh- 
ing before  I  have  time  to  make  my  will.  Duke  of  Medina 
Sidonia,  Countess  Carolina,  fairest  of  all  countesses,  and 
you,  noble  ambassador  of  his  holiness,  I  have  the  honor  tc 
bid  you  all  good  night.  I  must  laugh  and  drink,  or  die." 
Castelli  sprang  to  the  door,  and  vanished  in  a  moment. 


82  THE   TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS. 

"  And  by  what  title  am  I  to  address  you,  sir  ? " 
haughtily  said  Barante,  at  length  recovering  from  his  sur- 
prise. "  You  have  detected  two  fools,  who  had  not  strength 
of  mind  enough  to  hide  their  absurdities  for  an  hour  toge- 
ther. I  presume  you  pride  yourself  on  so  prodigious  an  ex- 
ploit ;  but  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with.  By  what  right 
have  you  entered  this  palace  ?  " 

"  By  the  request  of  the  Count  Barante  himself/'  said 
the  monk,  as  he  threw  the  gown  from  his  shoulders,  and, 
altering  his  countenance,  stood  before  the  group  in  the 
secretary's  costume. 

"  What,  Andreas  !  "  exclaimed  the  Count,  starting 
back.  "  What  son  of  Beelzebub  have  I  been  entertain- 
ing ?  I  suppose,  Spadocino,  you  have  made  fine  work  of 
your  portfolio  ?  The  secrets  of  the  embassy  were  in  capi- 
tal hands." 

"  I  never  betrayed  any  of  your  Excellency's  secrets," 
said  the  secretary  in  a  dry  tone,  "  but  your  sonnets,  which 
your  Excellency  was,  I  presume,  proud  to  acknowledge,  and 
your  criticism,  which  could  have  belonged  to  no  genius  in- 
ferior to  your  own." 

"  Mille  diavoli !  "  exclaimed  the  Count,  clapping  his 
hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  rapier.  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

The  demand  was  echoed  by  the  Duke.  La  Carolina's 
eyes  sparkled  with  tenfold  brilliancy.  A  smile  was  on  her 
red  lips  that  would  have  awoke  all  but  the  dead  ;  and  the 
little  jewelled  foot  hung  in  air,  as  if  she  were  about  to  step 
forward  ;  though  whether  to  throw  herself  into  the  young 
secretary's  arms,  or  to  fly  from  him,  must  be  left  to  the 
fancies  of  young  beauties  with  their  lovers  standing  at  bay 
before  them. 


THE    TRIAL   OF    HUSBANDS.  83 

"  My  Lord  Duke,  I  owe  that  answer  only  to  you/'  said 
the  handsome  youth,  with  a  flush  which  gave  additional  ex- 
pression to  a  noble  countenance.  "  lam  the  Count  Orazio 
de  Gusman,  your  relative,  and  descended  from  the  high  an- 
cestry of  the  Sidonias.  I  loved  your  daughter,  but,  doubt- 
ing whether  she  would  do  me  the  honor  to  acknowledge  my 
love,  I  determined  to  follow  her  to  Milan.  I  there  found 
that  her  hand  was  solicited  by  three  individuals  of  superior 
opulence.  But,  I  knew  two  of  them  to  be  profligates  by 
nature,  and  hypocrites  by  habit.  I  made  my  way  into 
their  society.  As  a  monk,  for  assuming  which  disguise  I 
have  purchased  absolution  this  morning,  I  found  out  the 
gaming  propensities  of  Calderone.  As  a  Mime,  I  brought 
the  Bacchanalianism  of  Castelli  into  full  display,  for  which 
I  shall  buy  absolution  to-morrow.  To  complete  my  work, 
I  brought  them  back  to  Milan,  where  temptation  and  de- 
tection were  equally  inevitable." 
"  Bravo  ! "  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

"  Bravo  ! "  echoed  the  attendants,  with  Italian  free- 
dom. 

"  Bravissimo  ! "  said  not  the  charming  tongue,  but  said 
with  tenfold  eloquence  the  flashing  eyes  of  the  young 
Countess. 

Orazio  turned  to  Barante.  "  This  noble  person,"  said 
he,  "will,  I  trust,  excuse  my  development  of  his  poetical 
and  critical  powers.  As  his  secretary,  I  was  acquainted  not 
with  his  vices,  but  with  his  virtues  ;  not  with  his  infidelity 
to  the  Countess  Carolina,  but  with  his  fidelity  to  the 
Muses  ;  not  with  his  love  of  the  die,  but  his  love  of  the 

Laurel ;  not  with  his  passion  for  the  bowl,  but " 

"  Mille  diavoli !"  screamed  Barante,  cutting  short  the 


84  THE    TRIAL    OF    HUSBANDS. 

speech,  "  I  wish  you  were  in  the  belly  of  Vesuvius.  What 
a  measureless  blockhead  I  was,  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
you  '  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia,  it  was  this  traitor  that 
tempted  me  first  to  write  sonnets ;  it  was  his  atrocious 
sycophancy  that  persuaded  me  to  think  myself  a  second 
Petrarch  ;  the  unlucky  volume  itself  that  ruined  me  was 
put  into  my  hands  by  this  Scapin.  May  he  be  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Liparis  !  To-morrow  I  shall  throw  up  my  em- 
bassy, and  never  return  to  Milan  for  the  next  thousand 
years." 

The  Count  sprang  from  the  spacious  casement  down 
the  marble  steps  of  the  parterre,  and  vanished  among  the 
shrubs  of  the  garden.  The  lovers  gazed  after  him  from  the 
saloon.  The  Duke  had  gone  to  the  table  where  the  papers 
still  lay,  and  was  profoundly  busy  in  gathering  every  scrap 
that  touched  on  his  authorship,  and  tearing  them  into  a 
million  fragments.  Never  was  criticism  more  thoroughly 
extinguished. 

In  the  mean  time,  what  was  the  occupation  of  the  two 
lovers  ?  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  tell.  The  night  was 
lovely,  the  garden  lovely,  and  the  moon,  as  she  sailed  over 
the  pure  azure  above,  was  lovely.  All  might  fairly  be  ob- 
jects of  contemplation.  Yet  we  cannot  tell  whether  they 
saw  any  one  of  the  three.  There  are  times  in  this  world 
when  people  see  without  using  their  eyes,  and  hear  with- 
out a  word  being  spoken.  Whether  the  low  sighs  which 
both  uttered  fom  time  to  time  were  telling  of  the  happy 
arts  with  which  Orazio  beguiled  his  rivals,  or  the  anxious 
interest  with  which  La  Carolina  heard  of  his  progress  ;  or 
whether  they  told  of  things  beyond  the  moon,  or  whether 
they  were  simply  the  relief  of  hearts  overloaded  with  de- 


THE   TBIAL    OF    HUSBANDS.  85 


light,  are  totally  beyond  our  knowledge.  But,  the  intense 
gaze  which  the  lover  fixed  on  the  blushing  beauty,  her  eye 
fixed  on  the  ground,  her  faint  effort  to  withdraw  her  ex- 
quisite form  from  the  arm  that  clung  round  it,  and  the  one 
long  and  fond  kiss,  that  seemed  as  if  it  communicated  the 
soul  of  one  to  the  other,  looked  like  happy  passion.  And, 
what  has  Earth  nobler,  lovelier,  or  more  happy  ? 


86  PARTED  FOB  EVEB. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  HYDE  NUGENT. 

ON  a  certain  part  of  the  coast  of  France  there  is  an  isl- 
and of  peculiar  loveliness,  which,  par  distinction,  I  may 
call  the  Isle  of  Hoses.  Always  bright,  blooming,  and  ver- 
dant, its  climate  is  perpetual  summer  ;  while  its  landscape, 
though  in  miniature,  presents  to  the  eye  a  scene  of  min- 
gled wood  and  rock,  shady  dell,  and  grassy  glade,  in  such 
profusion  of  wildness,  that  it  seems  as  if  Nature  had  re- 
solved to  enow  there  was  still  a  paradise  upon  earth.  Its 
shore  is  broken  into  sequestered  bays  between  jutting  cliffs 
of  no  great  height,  some  of  which  are  tufted  with  overhang- 
ing wood,  with  here  and  there  a  spring  gushing  through,  and 
finding  its  way  to  the  sea.  Surrounded  nearly  by  reefs  of 
rocks  in  the  distance,  it  has  ever  been  a  sort  of  Scylla  to 
man,  and  is  only  accessible  on  one  side,  by  which  ap- 
proach the  few  wants  of  its  happy,  though  small  colony  of 
inhabitants,  are  supplied  from  the  main  land. 

The  goodly  report  I  had  received  of  its  solitude,  and 
almost  nullity  of  visitors,  induced  me  to  seek  the  shades  of 


PARTED    FOR    EVER.  87 


the  Isle  of  Roses.  Here,  thought  I,  if  on  earth,  the  wea~ 
ry  may  indeed  be  at  rest ;  or  the  lover  of  nature  may  follow 
her  in  all  her  luxuriant  glee,  and  fanciful  wanderings,  with- 
out fear  of  inquiry  from  the  curious,  or  molestation  from 
the  officious. 

The  only  habitable"  house,  however,  for  an  Englishman, 
was  that  which  I  occupied  ;  having  been  before  tenanted 
by  an  English  family,  who,  from  particular  reasons,  had 
lately  left,  after  making  it  one  of  the  most  comfortable 
Anglo-French  residences  I  eve*  met  with.  Accident  had 
once  thrown  me  into  their  society  on  the  Continent.  Tra- 
velling in  the  southern  parts  of  Europe  in  search  of  health, 
lost  more  to  mind  than  body,  though  its  cause  is  of  little 
moment  here  to  tell,  it  was  my  study  to  avoid  the  society 
of  strangers,  and  especially  that  of  my  own  compatriots. 
At  one  place,  however,  I  was  so  kindly  treated  by  the  in- 
mates of  a  house  in  which  I  was  for  some  time  staying, 
that  one  evening  I  could  not  resist  their  solicitations  to 
accompany  them  to  the  reunion  of  a  few  friends.  "  I  shall 
at  least  meet  no  English  there,"  I  thought  ;  but  I  was  mis- 
taken ;  and  it  happened  that  those  whom  I  did  encounter, 
excited  in  me  a  greater  degree  of  interest  than  at  the  time 
I  was  willing  to  allow,  even  to  myself.  These  were  Sir 

George  M ,  and  his  daughter,  I  believe  an  only  child. 

I  was  not  introduced  to  them, — I  did  not  wish  it ;  but  the 
wandering  air  of  abstraction  which  hung  about  the  unhap- 
py-looking girl,  beautiful  as  she  was,  made  me  inquire  of 
my  friend,  Madame  de  T ,  what  might  be  the  cause. 

A  French  woman  delights  in  a  love- tale,  and  next  to 
being  herself  the  heroine,  she  loves  to  be  the  raconteuse. 
A  French  woman  likewise  tells  a  great  deal,  I  will  not  say 


88  PARTED    FOR    EVER. 

in  few  words,  but  in  a  short  time.  Without,  however,  at- 
tempting to  repeat  her  story,  I  will  merely  give  the  sub- 
stance, which  was  as  follows  : — 

Like  myself,  an  invalid  wandering  in  search  of  the  lost 
treasure,  the  Baronet  was  accompanied  by  his  daughter ; 
and,  vieux  militaire,  as  he  was,  by  an  officer  of  rank  who 
had  for  some  time  been  on  his  staff,  a  young  man  not  only 
of  great  mental  accomplishments  and  personal  graces,  but 
also  of  high  moral  reputation.  The  Baronet  was  fond  of 
a  quiet  life,  so  was  his  daughter,  and  so  was  Colonel 
G—  — ,  and  agreeing  so  perfectly,  no  wonder  that  they 
were  charmed  at  discovering  in  the  Isle  of  Roses  a  retreat 
so  exactly  suited  to  their  tastes. 

The  General,  who  as  well  as  a  baronet,  was  a  branch 
of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  noble  families  in  England, 
was  possessed  of  a  highly  aristocratic  mode  of  thinking  and 
acting.  He  was,  however,  exceedingly  absent  and  careless 
of  what  was  done,  provided  that  views  of  family  interest 
or  connection  were  not  interfered  with.  He  was  withal  a 
little  tormented  with  that  most  distinguished  of  diseases, 

the  gout.     When  a  boy,  Col.   G had  been  taken 

by  him  on  his  staff,  at  the  request  of  parliamentary  friends; 
and  as  he  rose  in  life  and  succeeded  to  fortune,  the  Gen- 
eral had  become  much  attached  to  him  ;  but  the  latter 
never  forgot,  that  on  the  score  of  family,  his  aide-de-camp 
dared  not  look  back  one  generation.  Imprudent  man, 
then,  to  allow  a  friendship  to  commence  between  two 
young  people,  which  would  never  with  his  consent  be 
sealed  by  an  indissoluble  union.  The  consequences  of 
their  residence  in  such  a  beautiful  retirement,  thrown  to- 
gether as  they  were,  without  any  other  society  whatever, 


PARTED    FOR   EVER.  89 

and  aided  by  a  foreknowledge  of  each  other,  might  have 
been  easily  foreseen.  They  became  devotedly  attached, 
and  the  stronger  their  love,  the  greater  the  fear  that  its 
discovery  should  be  a  death  blow  to  their  hopes.  Each 

day  increased  this  feeling.     Colonel  G knew  from 

Sir  George's  ideas  and  connection,  that  there  was  not  the 
shadow  of  a  chance  of  any  proposal  being  for  a  moment 
listened  to.  His  altered  and  melancholy  air,  and  the  fre- 
quent sighs  that  escaped  the  unhappy  Eleanor,  at  length 
excited  a  suspicion  on  the  Baronet's  mind  that  all  was  not 
right ;  and  on  suddenly  asking  his  daughter  if  any  thing 
preyed  upon  her  mind,  he  surprised  her  into  a  full  confes- 
sion. 

His  anger  may  be  conceived.     It  had  never  struck  him 

as  possible,  that  Eleanor  M ,  with  so  much  noble, 

and  even  a  few  drops  of  royal  blood  in  her  veins,  could 
ever  think  of  a  man  whose  family  was  not  even  of  yester- 
day ;  which  term  only  conveys  the  mind  as  far  back  as  the 

seventeenth  century.    Colonel  G was  of  no  family,  in 

fact.'  All  the  blood  of  the  Conqueror's  contemporary 
rushed  at  a  fearful  rate  through  the  vessels  of  his  descend- 
ant on  the  discovery  of  the  truth.  But  why  should  I 
describe  the  anger,  the  inflexibility,  the  harshness  of  one 
party,  the  tears,  the  prayers,  the  sorrows  of  the  second,  or 
the  offended  dignity,  the  regrets,  the  explanations,  the  de- 
parture of  the  third  ?  These  followed  in  quick  succes- 
sion ;  but  after  the  parting  of  the  lovers,  or  rather  the  sep- 
aration, had  taken  place,  for  they  were  not  allowed  to  see 
each  other,  and  the  despondency  of  the  beautiful  Eleanor, 
from  which  no  exertions  on  her  father's  part  could  rouse 
her,  was  complete,  was  he  satisfied — was  he  made  hap- 


90  PARTED    FOR    EVER. 

pier  ?  Never  could  he  be  ;  nor  was  it  any  consolation  to 
him  to  know  that  his  own  imprudence  had  caused  his 
daughter's  misery. 

This  historiette  sufficiently  accounted  for  the  wild  and 
distracted  air  of  La  Belle  Anglaise;  who,  the  picture  of 
despair,  yet  obliged  by  the  General  to  go  into  society,  was, 
to  her  infinite  unhappiness,  still  the  point  of  attraction  for 
all  the  gallant  men  in  the  room.  *  And  here  I  might  en- 
ter into  a  description  of  her  beauty,  but  what  would  it 
avail  ?  For  one  only  might  those  deep  blue  eyes  again  be 
kindled  into  animation,  those  lips  be  induced  to  wear  a 
emile.  A  time  might  come,  but  the  sternness  of  her  fa- 
ther's look  at  present  seemed  to  deny  all  hope.  Yet  was 
there  occasionally  a  momentary  gleam  of  affectionate  so- 
licitude in  his  glance,  though,  on  a  sudden,  some  recollection 
seemed  to  cross  his  mind,  and  the  knitting  of  his  brows 
gave  a  hardness  to  the  countenance,  which,  to  a  keen  ob- 
server, told  of  inflexible  decision.  Unhappy  man  !  thy 
want  of  foresight  has  broken  the  hearts  of  two  who  were 
dear  to  you,  and  blasted  the  happiness  of  thine  own. 

I  \vas  much  interested  by  Madame  de  T 's  story  ; 

moreover,  the  deep  seclusion  which  her  description  of  the 
Isle  of  Koses  led  me  to  believe  it  possessed,  prompted  my 
traget  thither.  I  found  it  all  I  wished.  Here  I  was  com- 
pletely shut  out  from  the  world,  and  might,  but  for  the 
restlessness  of  a  diseased  mind,  have  there  ended  my  days. 
A  slight  circumstance,  however,  again  induced  me  to 
wander  forth. 

There  was  one  apartment  in  my  house  to  which  I  had 
taken  a  particular  fancy,  and  used  it  as  a  breakfast  room. 
It  was  not  what  we  should  style  a  parlor,  being  something 


PARTED    FOB    EVER.  91 

between  the  French  salon  and  the  English  rooms  so 
designated  ;  a  degree  of  perfection  to  which  my  prede- 
cessor had  brought  it.  Jasmines  and  roses  peeped  in  at 
the  windows,  which  communicated  with  what  may  scarcely 
be  termed  a  garden  ;  for  that  is  too  regular  a  sounding 
title  for  the  wild  and  beautiful  flower-grounds  they  opened 
upon.  Its  cheerfulness  and  sunny  aspect  was  by  degrees 
drawing  me  out  of  the  morbid  melancholy  which  had  for 
months  beset  me.  There  was  a  style  of  elegance  in  the 
Italian  marble  chimney-pieces  and  other  furniture  still 
left,  which  bespoke  the  taste  of  the  late  occupant.  There 
were  also  some  fine  pictures  still  hanging  to  the  walls. 
There  was  a  harp-key,  probably  mislaid  when  packing  up, 
and  heaps  of  music  ;  some  pencil  drawings  in  a  bold  mas- 
terly hand,  and  several  books,  with  other  things,  which 
were  to  have  been  sent  afterwards,  but  my  housekeeper 
declared  she  had  as  yet  had  no  opportunity.  I  cannot 
say  that  all  these  gave  me  much  comfort.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  nervous  from  constant  thinking  of  the  unin- 
terrupted happiness  of  those  who  had  so  lately  enjoyed 
every  comfort  and  luxury  in  the  beloved  society  of  each 
other.  At  length  I  almost  transferred  the  case  of  Colonel 

Gr to  myself;    and  though  this  sympathy   in  some 

measure  made  me  forget  my  own  grief,  it  worried  me  be- 
yond endurance,  and  soon  came  to  a  climax. 

Ranging  up  and  down  the  room  one  morning,  I  espied 
on  a  shelf,  which  had  before  escaped  me,  a  heap  of  papers. 
These  turned  out  to  be  old  gazettes,  full  of  orders  in  coun- 
cil and  military  promotions  ;  but  between  their  leaves  had 
crept  something  of  much  more  interest ;  namely,  two  or 
three  eongs,  written  in  a  hand  of  which  the  beauty  and 


92  PARTED    FOR    EVER. 

delicacy  of  the  characters  easily  betrayed  by  what  fingers 
the  pen  that  traced  them  had  been  guided.  They  were 
Italian,  save  one,  which,  though  now  seldom  heard,  has 
acquired  the  deathless  fame  a  production  of  the  author  of 
"  Marmion"  must  ever  hold.  There  was  a  portion  of  this 
which  increased  my  melancholy  sympathy  in  the  fate  of 
the  lovers  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  it  was  the  first 
line  that  caught  my  attention, — 

"  From  his  true  maiden's  breast,  parted  for  ever." 

I  suddenly  threw  down  the  song,  under  the  most  painful 
feelings,  and  wandered  forth  into  the  grounds,  for  I  almost 
fancied  myself — such  an  effect  has  loneliness  upon  the 
mind — in  the  company  of  the  trio  by  whom  that  room 
had  been  occupied.  But  wherever  I  went,  still  was  their 
story  before  me  ;  the  "  early  violet "  dying,  reminded  me 
of  the  death  of  their  hopes,  and  the  sound  of  the  "far 
billow  "  through  the  deep  groves  caused  a  sigh  for  happiness 
and  peace  that  could  be  known  but  in  the  grave. 

Reader,  I  know  not  the  fair  Eleanor  ;  I  had  seen  her 
but  once,  yet  I  will  confess  to  you,  that  when  I  took  my 
way  through  the  beautiful  sunny  solitudes  and  fairy  glades, 
which  her  foot  had  lately  pressed,  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing as  much  interest  in  her  fate  as  though  I  had  been  in- 
timate with  her  all  my  life.  Here  was  her  own  secluded 
bath,  covered  in  and  shaded  from  view,  in  a  clear  sandy 
bay  of  the  sea-shore  ;  there  was  her  garden,  there  her 
green  and  gravel-walks,  and  the  flowers  which  herself  had 
planted  ;  but  the  hand  that  checked  their  luxuriance,  and 
tended  their  growth,  was  with  them  no  more.  From  the 
shore,  led  up  a  winding  path,  whose  turns  might  scarceh 


PARTED    FOR    EVER.  93 


be  perceived  from  the  thick-flowing  shruhs  and  evergreens 
that  hung  or  protruded  from  its  banks.  Vegetation  was 
growing  rank,  and  nature  seemed  droopingly  to  inquire  for 
the  fair  and  taper  fingers,  that,  till  lately,  had  controlled 
her  too  forward  family.  In  short,  every  place  told  of  her  : 
and  fancy,  or  a  diseased  imagination,  worked  upon  by  all 
these  trifling  circumstances,  hurried  my  departure  from 
the  Isle  of  Roses  ;  for  in  every  ramble  I  was  perpetually 
haunted  by  the  recollection  that  it  had  also  been  a  favorite 
resort  of  those  who  were  now  "  Parted  for  ever." 


94  THE   FIKST-BORN. 


BY   J.    FOHBES   DALTON,    ESQ. 

HOPE  and  Fear,  philosophers  say, 

Checker  our  lives  like  night  and  day  ; 

And  so,  perhaps,  they  usually  may. 
But  pleasanter  far  are  feelings  between, 
Like  the  summer  sunset  and  twilight  scene, 
When  the  brilliant  heavens  are  all  serene, 
And  the  earth  is  clad  in  her  darkest  green, 
And  we  quietly  gaze  in  deep  delight, 
With  our  hopes  and  our  fears  all  out  of  sight, 
Not  wishing  for  day  nor  dreading  the  night. 
Now,  in  such  a  mood,  for  about  a  year, 
It  might  have  been  less,  but  'twas  very  near, 

Had  our  good  yeoman  lived.     For  why  ? 
He'd  won  the  maiden  of  his  choice, 

His  hopes  and  fears  had  all  gone  by, 
He'd  nothing  left  but  to  rejoice. 


THE    FIRST-BORN.  95 


And  that  he  did  in  such  a  style, 

It  would  have  cheered  your  heart  to  see  ; 
He  seemed  to  live  on  Mary's  smile, 

And  laughed  with  such  a  boyish  glee. 
How  rapidly  Time  sped  his  flight ! 

He  loved  as  when  love  first  began, 
She  was  his  whole  and  sole  delight, 

And  Mary  loved  her  "  own  good  man." 
A  happier  home,  a  happier  lot, 
They  both  declared  the  world  had  not. 

But  Hope  and  Fear,  long  driven  away, 

Both  came  back  on  the  self-same  day. 

Mary  was  ill  and  kept  her  bed, 

John  felt  a  very  odd  pain  in  his  head, 

Which  his  sister  said  was  merely  a  whim, 

And  nobody  else  seemed  to  care  for  him. 

For  there  came  an  old  lady  who  bustled  about, 

And  contrived  very  soon  all  his  household  to  rout. 

For,  although  not  a  lady  of  high  degree, 

That  she  deemed  herself  mistress  'twas  easy  to  see. 

Yet,  though  ever  in  motion,  still  quiet  was  she, 

As  she  glided  along  and  appeared  to  be 

Engaged  in  some  awful  mystery. 

How  Mary  was,  John  wished  to  know  ; 

The  nurse  declared  he  "  must  not  talk  ;  " 
He  paced  his  parlor  to  and  fro, 

But  "  there,"  she  said,  he  "  must  not  walk." 


96  THE    FIRST-BORN. 


He  sat  him  down  and  laid  his  head 

Upon  his  palm — all — all  alone  ; 
His  manly  heart  o'ercharged  with  dread, 

Yet  dared  he  scarcely  sigh  or  groan. 

Yet  might  he  breathe  a  silent  prayer 

To  Him  who  can  in  silence  hear  ; 
He  did — and  lighter  grew  his  care, 

And  Hope  resumed  the  place  of  Fear. 

He  listened,  gazing  on  the  floor, 

Strange  fancies  o'er  him  "  coming  thick," 

While  the  old  clock  behind  the  door 
Had  never  seemed  so  slow  to  tick. 

And  thus  his  anxious  watch  he  kept, 
Oft  murmuring  his  loved  one's  name, 

Lonely  as  though  the  household  slept, 
Till  from  her  room  a  low  sound  came. 

'Twas  scarcely  sound — but  like  the  fall 
Of  fairy  footsteps  gathering  round  ; 

Then  whispering  soft — then  silence  all, 
As  though  'twere  hallowed  ground. 

Then  broke  the  spell — not  with  a  word, 

But  an  infant's  cry.     How  it  made  him  start  t 

He  listened,  and  he  thought  he  heard 
An  echo  in  his  heart. 


THE    FIRST-BORN.  97 


'Twas  Nature's  voice.     That  feeble  cry 

Awoke  paternal  love  and  pride  ; 
Feelings  with  death  alone  to  die, 

Yet  still  he  trembled  for  his  bride  ; 
Till  his  sister  tripped  in  with  a  whisper  of  joy, 
Saying,"  Mary  is  well,  John,  and  so  is  your  boy." 

It  now  only  remains  of  our  FIRST-BORN  to  state 
What  is  told  so  exceedingly  well  in  our  plate. 
His  aunt  and  the  nurse  in  his  long-clothes  arrayed  him, 
And  then  in  the  arms  of  the  latter  they  laid  him  ; 
And  so,  in  due  form,  to  his  father  conveyed  him, 
And  with  high  approbation  and  smiles  surveyed  him, 
(As  the  painter's  talent  hath  deftly  portrayed  him) 
While  they  both  ostentatiously  displayed  him, 
As  highly  delighted  as  though  they  had  made  him. 


98  THE    WIDOW'S    SONG. 


BY    T.    K.    HERVEY,    ESQ. 

OH  !  this  world  is  a  wide  one — for  sorrow  or  joy — 
And  where  in  this  world  is  my  own  sailor-boy  ! 
^Yith  his  loud  ringing  laugh,  and  his  long  sunny  hair, 
Do  they  play  on  the  breeze  jet,  and  float  through  the 

air  ? 

Is  there  any  bright  land,  mid  the  lands  of  the  earth, 
That  holds  the  lost  child  of  my  heart  and  my  hearth  ? 
I  have  sat  by  the  fire,  when  the  old  men  have  said 
There  be  eyes  of  the  living  that  look  on  the  dead ; 
Oh  !  tell  me,  ye  seers,  in  your  search  of  the  tomb, 
Do  you  find  my  fair  son  in  its  valleys  of  gloom  ? 
Is  there  any  pale  boy,  with  a  look  of  the  sea, 
Mid  that  people  of  shades,  who  is  watching  for  me  ? 

Oh  !  that  morn  when  he  left  us  !  — mine  eyes  are  grown 

dim, 
And  see  little  that's  bright,  since  they  looked  upon  him  ; 


THE    WIDOW'S    SONG.  99 

And  my  heart,  in  its  dulness,  hath  learnt  to  forget, 
But  the  light  of  that  morning  shines  clear  to  it  yet  ; 
No  record  is  lost  of  the  far  sunny  day 
When  passed  my  fair  boy,  like  a  spirit,  away. 

We  waited — how  long  ! — but  we  waited  in  vain, 
And  we  looked  over  land,  and  we  looked  over  main  ; 
And  ships — oh  !  how  many  ! — came  home  from  the  sea, 
That  brought  comfort  to  others,  but  sorrow  to  me ; 
In  all  those  gay  ships,  oh  !  there  answer  was  none 
To  the  mother  who  asks  if  she  yet  have  a  son ! 

And  we  fed  upon  hope,  until  hope  was  denied, 
Till  our  health  of  the  spirit  it  sickened  and  died  ; 
And  his  father  sat  down  in  his  old  broken  chair, 
And  I  watched  the  white  sorrow  steal  over  his  hair, 
And  I  saw  his  clear  eye  waxing  feeble  and  wild, 
And  the  frame  of  the  childless  grew  weak  as  a  child  ; 
And  the  angel  of  grief,  that  o'ershadowed  his  brain, 
Now  wrote  on  his  forehead,  in  letters  of  pain  ; 
And  I  read  the  handwriting,  and  knew  that  the  breast 
Of  the  weary  with  waiting  was  going  to  rest ; 
So  he  left  a  fond  word  for  the  lost  one — and  /, 
I  linger  behind  him,  to  tell  it  my  boy  ! 

"Shall  he  come  to  his  home — perhaps  sickly  and  poor, 
And  meet  with  no  smile  at  his  own  cottage-door ! 
Shall  he  seek  his  far  land,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
And  find  the  fire  quenched  on  his  once  happy  hearth  I 
None  to  love  him  in  sorrow  who  loved  him  in  joy — 
Oh  !  I  cannot  depart  till  I  speak  with  my  boy  ! 


100  THE    WIDOW'S    SONG. 


I  have  promised  to  wait — I  have  promised  to  say 

What  grief  was  his  father's  at  going  away. 

Will  he  come  ? — will  he  come  ? — oh  !  my  heart  is  grown 

old, 

And  the  blood  in  my  veins  it  runs  languid  and  cold  ; 
And  my  spirit  is  faint,  and  my  vision  is  dim, 
But  there's  that  in  mine  eye  will  be  light  yet  for  him  ! 

They  tell  me  of  countries  beyond  the  broad  sea, 
Where  stars  look  on  others  that  look  not  on  me, 
Where  the  flowers  are  more  sweet  and  the  waters  more 

bright, 

And  they  hint  he  may  dwell  in  those  valleys  of  light, 
That  he  rests  in  some  home,  with  a  far  foreign  bride  : 
Oh  !  this  world  is  a  wide  one — why  is  it  so  wide  ? 

But  they  surely  forget,  which  my  sailor  does  not, 

That  I'm  sitting  whole  years  in  my  lone  little  cot ; 

He  knows — oh  !  he  knows,  if  I  may,  I  shall  wait, 

Till  I  hear  his  clear  shout  at  the  low  garden-gate  ; 

Oh  !  weary  of  life,  but  unwilling  to  die 

Till  the  latch  has  been  raised  by  my  lost  sailor-boy  ! 

I  believe  that  he  lives — were  he  low  in  the  mould, 

There's  a  pulse  in  my  heart  should  be  silent  and  cold, 

That  awoke  at  his  birth,  and,  through  good  and  through 

ill, 

Hath  played  in  its  depths,  and  is  playing  there  still ; 
When  its  star  shall  have  set,  then  that  tide  shall  be  dry, 
And  the  widow  be  sure  where  to  look  for  her  boy ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    !SO*U.  103 


Oh  !  will  he  come  never  ! — lost  son  of  the  sea  ! 
I  hear  a  low  voice  that  is  calling  for  me  : 
It  comes  from  that  spot,  the  dark  yew-trees  among, 
Where  the  grave  of  thy  sire  has  been  lonely  too  long, 
A  voice  like  a  spirit's — I  come — oh  !  I  come  ! 
Hath  he  met  my  lost  child  in  the  land  of  the  tomb  ! 

I  shall  know  ! — but,  if  not,  if  he  comes  to  the  door, 
When  the  voice  of  his  mother  can  bless  him  no  more, 
Some  finger  shall  point  to  the  pathway  of  tombs, 
Where  my  boy  may  come  up  to  our  mansion  of  glooms, 
And  I  think  I  shall  hear  his  light  tread  o'er  the  stones, 
Like  the  sound  of  the  trump  in  the  valley  of  bones  1 


BY     MRS.     ST.     SI  MO  N  . 

HE  who  bids  adieu  to  the  world,  and  retires  into  the  wil- 
derness, does  not  for  that  reason  become  a  saint ;  for  so  long 
as  the  inclination  to  evil  dwells  in  the  heart,  temptation 
from  without  is  easily  found  and  sin  is  committed. 

Experience  taught  this  to  the  man  of  whom  an  old  story 
gives  account.  This  man  was  by  nature  prone  to  sudden 
bursts  of  passion,  but  instead  of  seeking  the  cause  of  this 
fault  in  himself,  he  cast  the  blame  upon  the  man  who  excited 
him  to  anger,  and  he  thought — 


102  THE    HERMIT    AN»   THE    PITCHER. 

"  If  this  is  so,  the  world  is  an  injury  to  me,  and  it  ia 
better  that  I  should  leave  it,  rather  than  lose  my  soul." 

He  withdrew,  therefore,  into  the  wilderness,  and  built 
himself  a  hut  in  the  midst  of  a  wood,  close  by  a  spring;  and 
the  bread  that  he  ate  was  brought  daily  to  him  by  a  boy, 
who  had  been  directed  to  place  it  upon  a  rock,  at  a  distance 
from  the  hut. 

And  thus  all  went  well  for  several  days,  and  he  thought 
that  he  had  become  the  most  mild  and  even-tempered  man  in 
the  world. 

One  day,  he  went,  as  usual,  with  his  pitcher  to  the  spring, 
and  placed  it  so  that  the  water  might  run  into  it.  But  as 
the  ground  was  stony  and  uneven,  the  pitcher  fell  over.  He 
placed  it  upright  again,  and  more  carefully  than  before ;  but 
the  water,  which  spouted  forth  irregularly,  overturned  it  a 
second  time.  Then  he  angrily  seized  the  vessel  and  dashed 
it  violently  upon  the  ground,  so  that  it  broke  in  pieces. 

He  now  remarked  that  his  old  anger  had  broken  forth 
again,  and  he  thought — 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  the  wilderness  can  in  no  way  profit 
me ;  and  it  is  better  that  I  try  to  save  my  soul  in  the  wcrld, 
by  avoiding  that  -which  is  evil,  and  practising  that  which  is 
good."  And  he  returned  again  into  the  world. 

Observe — there  are  evil  inclinations  which  may  be  con- 
quered by  avoiding  the  occasions  which  call  them  forth,  and 
there  are  others  which  must  be  vanquished  by  resistance. 
But  to  perform  either,  we  need  not  fly  from  the  world,  but 
from  ourselves  only. 


THE    RETIRED   MERCHANT.  103 


A  LONDON  merchant  engaged  in  Mediterranean  commerce, 
had  successfully  prosecuted  his  business  and  amassed,  what 
all  merchants  desire,  an  ample  fortune.  His,  indeed,  was 
a  princely  one.  He  had  purchased  a  large  and  beautiful 
estate  in  the  country,  and  had  built  and  furnished  a  splendid 
mansion  in  town,  on  the  Surrey-side  of  the  river,  and  now 
that  he  was  verging  towards  sixty,  he  concluded  to  retire 
and  enjoy  the  remnant  of  his  life  in  peaceful  leisure. 

He  negotiated  for  the  sale  of  his  abundance-making  busi- 
ness, and  sold  it  for  another  fortune.  He  then  retired.  He 
was  a  bachelor.  He  had  his  halls,  his  parlors,  dining  rooms 
and  drawing  rooms,  his  library  and  cabinets  of  curiosities. 
The  floors  were  covered  with  the  most  mosaic  specimens  of 
Brussels  or  of  Turkey  carpetings — the  furniture  was  of  the 
most  complete  and  exquisite  selections — the  walls  with  splen- 
dent mirrors  and  with  classic  paintings  were  adorned — and 
fine  linen  decorated  all. 

Carriages,  horses,  grooms  and  servants,  were  at  his  com- 
mand. Books,  pictures  and  engravings  were  at  hand  to 
interest  him.  The  daily  and  the  weekly  papers,  and  the 
periodicals,  brought  to  his  table  all  the  news  of  the  great 
world,  and  his  friends  and  his  acquaintance  paid  him  hom- 
age. How  happy  must  the  man  be,  who  has  all  this  ! 

He  was  not  happy.     He  had  no  aim,  no  motive.     The 


104  THE    RETIRED    MERCHANT. 


zest  with  which  he  read  the  papers  when  he  was  a  merchant, 
he  had  lost,  now  he  had  ceased  to  be  engaged  in  commerce. 
A  storm,  a  fleet,  a  pestilence  along  the  Mediterranean 
shores,  was  full  of  interest  to  him  before,  because  he  had  in- 
vestments there.  Now,  they  were  of  no  consequence  to  him. 
The  views  and  aims  of  government,  were  watched  by  him 
before,  with  searching  scrutiny,  because  his  destiny  waa 
bound  up  with  theirs.  The  parliamentary  debates  were  of 
the  greatest  consequence  before,  as  indicating  British  policy ; 
but  .that  to  him  now  ceased  to  be  an  object  of  importance. — 
His  fortune  was  achieved — his  course  was  run — his  destiny 
fulfilled. 

Soon,  every  thing  and  place  appeared  to  him,  one  uniform 
and  universal  blank.  His  beautiful  apartments  were  unused 
— his  carriage  and  horses  unemployed — his  books  unread — 
his  papers  were  unopened — his  meals  untasted — and  his 
clothes  unworn.  He  had  lost  all  enjoyment  of  his  life,  and 
contemplated  suicide. 

Saturday  night  arrived,  and  he  resolved  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing early,  before  the  busy  populace  were  stirring,  he  would 
make  his  way  to  Waterloo  bridge,  and  jump,  or  tumble  off, 
into  the  river. 

At  three  o'clock,  he  set  out  on  his  final  expedition,  and 
had  slowly  reached  the  bridge,  the  shadows  of  the  night 
protecting  him  from  observation,  when  a  figure  stood  before 
him..  Amazed  at  being  seen  by  any  one,  he  turned  out  of 
his  path,  when  the  figure  crouching  low  before  him,  revealed 
a  tattered,  miserable  man,  bearing  his  head  in  abjectncss. 

fi  What  are  you  doing  here,"  inquired  the  retired 
merchant. 


THE    RETIRED    MERCHANT.  105 

"  I  have  a  wife  and  family,  whom  I  can't  help  from  starv- 
ing, and  I  am-afraid  to  go  and  see  them.  Last  night  I  knew 
they  would  be  turned  into  the  streets,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Take  that,"  replied  the  merchant,  giving  him  his  purse, 
with  gold  and  silver  in  it — thinking  to  himself,  "  how  much 
more  useful  this  will  he  to  him,  than  in  my  pockets  in  the 
water." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir — God  bless  you,  sir,"  exclaimed  the 
man,  several  times — kneeling  before  the  astonished  merchant. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  merchant,  "  do  not  overwhelm  me  so 
with  your  thanksgivings — but  tell  me  where  you  live." 

"  In  Lambeth,  sir." 

"  Then  why  are  you  here  this  morning,"  said  the  mer- 
chant. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  tell  you,"  said  the  man.  "  I  am  ashamed 
to  tell  a  gentleman  like  you." 

"  Why  so?"  replied  the  merchant. 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  as  I  had  not  a  single  pen- 
ny, and  did  not  know  how  to  get  one,  I  came  here  to  drown 
myself,  although  I  knew  'twas  wicked  !" 

The  merchant  was  astonished  and  appalled,  and  after  a 
long  silence,  said,  "  My  man,  I  am  overwhelmed  with  wealth, 
and  yet  I  am  so  miserable,  that  I  came  here  this  morn- 
ing for  the  same  purpose  as  yourself.  There's  something 
more  in  this  than  I  can  understand  at  present.  Let  me  go 
with  you,  and  see  your  family." 

The  man  made  every  excuse  to  hinder  the  merchant — but 
he  would  go. 

"  Have  you  lost  your  character  ?"  said  the  merchant. 

"  No  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  but  I  am  so  miserably  poor 


106  THE    RETIRED    MERCHANT. 


and  wretched — and  for  anything  I  know,  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren may  be  turned  into  the  street." 

•'  Why  are  you  out  of  work  and  pay?"  resumed  the  mer- 
chant. 

"  I  used  to  groom  the  horses  of  the  stage  coaches,"  said 
the  man,  "but  since  the  railroads  are  come  up,  the  coaches 
are  put  down,  and  many  men,  like  me,  have  no  employment." 

They  plodded  on  their  way,  two  miles  of  brick  and  mortar 
piled  on  either  side.  At  last  they  came  to  a  third-rate 
house,  when  a  rough,  common-looking  woman  was  opening  the 
door  and  shutter.  As  soon  as  she  saw  the  man,  she  let  loose 
her  tongue  upon  him  for  all  the  villany  in  the  world,  but 
something  which  passed  from  his  hand  to  hers,  hushed  her 
in  an  instant ;  and  observing  the  merchant,  she  courtesied 
to  him  civilly. 

The  man  ran  up  stairs,  leaving  the  merchant  and  woman 
together,  which  gave  the  former  an  opportunity  to  make  in- 
quiries. Having  satisfied  himself  that  want  was  the  crime  of 
the  family,  he  told  the  woman  who  he  was,  promised  to  see 
her  paid,  and  induced  her  to  set  on  and  cook  a  breakfast  for 
the  family,  and  supply  them  with  any  thing  which  they 
needed. 

The  man  returned,  and  the  merchant  went  up  stairs,  to 
see,  for  the  first  time,  a  wretched  family  in  rags,  dirt,  and 
misery.  He  comforted  them  with  hope  of  better  days,  and 
bidding  the  man  take  a  hasty  meal  below,  took  him  with  him, 
and  helped  with  his  own  hands  to  load  a  cart  with  bed,  bed- 
ding, clothes,  furniture  and  food,  for  the  family. 

The  man  was  gone,  and  the  merchant  for  the  first  moment, 
reflected  on  all  that  had  passed.  He  was  relieved  of  his 


MORNING.  107 


misery,  by  doing  something  for  another,  and  out  of  mere 
selfishness,  he  resolved  on  doing  good  to  others,  to  prevent 
the  necessity  for  drowning  himself. 

He  employed  the  man  in  his  stable,  removed  the  family 
near,  and  placed  them  in  a  cottage,  sending  the  children  to 
school.  Soon  he  sought  out  misery  to  relieve,  and  was  led  to 
consider  the  cause  of  all  misery — sin.  He  turned  to  God  and 
found  Him — and  sought  to  turn  his  fellow  sinners. 

He  aided  every  good  word  and  work,  and  was  the  humble 
teller  of  his  own  humbling  story.  He  had  been  a  merchant- 
man seeking  goodly  pearls — and  having  found  the  pearl  of 
groat  price,  he  went  and  sold  all  that  he  had,  and  bought 
it — and  the  retired  earthly  merchant  became  an  active  hea- 
venly merchant. 


BY     MISS     P  H  CE  B  E     CAREY 

SADLY,  when  the  day  was  done, 
To  his  setting  waned  the  sun ; 
Heavily  the  shadows  fellr 
And  the  wind,  with  fitful  swell, 
Echoed  through  the  forest  dim. 
Like  a  friar's  ghostly  hymn. 


108  MORNING. 

Mournful  on  the  wall  afar. 
Walked  the  evening  sentry  star ; 
Burning  clear,  and  cold,  and  lone, 
Midnight's  constellations  shone ; 
While  the  hours,  with  solemn  tread 
Passed  like  watchers  by  the  dead. 

Now  at  last  the  morning  wakes, 
And  the  spell  of  darkness  breaks, 
On  the  mountains,  dewy  sweet, 
Standing  with  her  rosy  feet,  - 
While  her  golden  fingers  fair 
Part  the  soft  flow  of  her  hair. 

With  the  dew  from  flower  and  leaf 
Flies  the  heavy  dew  of  grief ; 
From  the  darkness  of  my  thought, 
Night  her  solemn  aspect  caught; 
And  the  morning's  joys  begin, 
As  a  morning  breaks  within. 

God's  free  sunsnine  on  the  hills, 
Soft  mists  hanging  o'er  the  rills, 
Blushing  flowers  of  loveliness 
Trembling  with  the  light  wind's  kiss- 
Oh  !  the  soul  forgets  its  care, 
Looking  on  a  world  so  fair ! 

Morning  woos  me  with  her  charms, 
Like  a  lover's  pleading  arms; 
Soft  above  me  bend  her  skies, 
As  a  lover's  tender  eyes  ; 
And  my  heavy  heart  of  pain. 
Trembling,  thrills  with  hope  again. 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE.  109 


A  Remarkable  Passage  in  the  Romance  of  History. 

"  THE  memorial  tree,"  from  which  the  arrow  of  Sir 
Walter  Tyrrel  glanced,  and  beside  which  the  king  lay 
extended  on  the  ground,  is  now  exceeding  old,  and  scarcely 
a  trace  remains  of  its  former  greatness.  It  stood  in  this  wild 
spot,  (the  New  Forest)  when  the  stern  decree  went  forth, 
which  enjoined  that  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the  south- 
western part  of  Hampshire,  measuring  thirty  miles  from 
Salisbury  to  the  sea,  and  in  circumference  at  least  ninety 
miles,  all  trace  of  human  habitation  should  be  swept  away. — • 
William  the  Conqueror  might  have  indulged  his  passion  for 
the  chase  in  the  many  parks  and  forests  which  Anglo-Saxon 
monarchs  had  reserved  for  the  purpose,  but  he  preferred 
rather  to  have  a  vast  hunting-ground  for  his  "  superfluous 
and  insatiate  pleasure"  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
Winchester,  his  favorite  place  of  residence.  The  wide  ex- 
panse that  was  thus  doomed  to  inevitable  desolation  was 
called  Ytene  or  Ytchtene  ;  it  comprised  numerous  villages 
and  homesteads,  churches,  and  ancestral  halls,  where  Saxon 
families  of  rank  resided,  and  where  an  industrious  population 
followed  the  daily  routine  of  pasturage  and  husbandry.  A 
large  proportion  had  been  consequently  brought  into  cultiva- 
tion ;  yet  sufficient  still  remained  to  afford  a  harbor  for 


THE  DESOLATION  OF  YTCHTENE. 


numerous  wild  animals.  This  part  comprised  many  sylvan 
spots  of  great  beauty,  with  tracts  of  common  land,  covered 
with  the  golden  blossomed  gorse,  and  tufts  of  ferns,  or  else 
with  short  herbage,  intermingled  with  wild  thyme.  Noble 
groups  of  forest-trees  were  seen  at  intervals,  with  clear  run- 
ning streams,  and  masses  of  huge  stones  which  projected 
from  among  the  grass.  The  sun  rose  on  the  morning  of  the 
fatal  day  in  cloudless  beauty,  and  fresh  breezes  tempered  the 
heat,  which,  at  harvest-time  is  often  great  ;  the  people  were 
already  in  the  fields,  and  the  creaking  of  heavy-laden  wagons 
was  heard  at  intervals,  with  the  sweeping  sound  of  the  rapid 
sickle.  In  a  moment  the  scene  was  -changed.  Bands  ,of 
Norman  soldiers  rushed  in  and  drove  all  before  them.  They 
trod  down  the  standing  corn,  and  commanded  the  terrified 
inhabitants  of  hall  and  hut,  to  depart  in  haste.  More  than 
one  hundred  manors,  villages,  and  hamlets  were  depopulated, 
even  the  churches  were  thrown  down  —  those  venerated 
places,  where  the  voice  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving  had  been 
heard  for  generations.  He  who  passed  the  next  day  over  the 
wide  waste,  saw  only  ruins  black  with  smoke,  trampled  fields, 
and  dismantled  churches.  Here  and  there  broken  imple- 
ments of  husbandry  met  the  view,  and  beside  them,  not  un- 
frequently,  the  corpse  of  him  who  had  dared  to  resist  the 
harsh  mandate  of  the  Conqueror.  Females,  too,  had  fallen 
to  the  earth  in  their  terror  and  distress,  and  young  children 
were  in  their  death-sleep,  among  the  tufts  of  flowers  where 
they  had  sported  the  day  before.  Many  stately  buildings 
were  pulled  down  at  once  ;  others,  having  their  roofs  thrown 
open,  were  left  to  be  destroyed  by  the  weather,  and  hence  it 
not  seldom  happened  that  a  stranger,  in  passing  through  a 


THE  DESOLATION  OF  YTCHTENE. 


meadow  into  one  of  those  shady  coverts,  which  still  varied 
the  aspect  of  the  country,  forgetting,  in  the  freshness  and 
the  loveliness  of  all  around  him,  the  terrible  undoings  of  pre- 
vious days,  might  see  through  the  undulating  branches  of  the 
trees,  the  walls  or  roofs  of  houses,  which  looked  as  if  they 
had  escaped  the  general  ruin.  They  stood,  apparently,  in 
the  midst  of  cultivated  fields,  occasionally  by  the  road  side, 
and  their  pointed  roofs  were  covered  with  the  vine  or  honey- 
suckle. On  a  nearer  approach  the  illusion  vanished,  not  a 
sound  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  place  ;  the  houses  which 
looked  so  inviting  when  seen  at  a  short  distance,  showed  that 
the  hand  of  ruin  had  done  its  work.  The  doors  were  broken 
open,  the  windows  dashed  in,  the  roofs  were  open  to  the  winds 
of  heaven,  and  the  little  gardens  overrun  with  weeds.  The 
ruins  of  an  antique  abbey  were  often  close  at  hand,  with  its 
richly  painted  windows,  broken  through  and  through  ;  or, 
perhaps,  the  shattered  walls  of  some  hospitable  dwelling,  in 
which  a  Saxon  thane  had  resided. 

Where  the  labor  of  man  has  ceased,  vegetation  soon  asserts 
her  empire,  and  fields,  when  left  to  themselves,  become, 
according  to  their  soil,  either  wild  or  stony,  or  else  covered 
with  a  dense  growth  of  underwood  and  tall  trees.  Such  was 
the  case  over  the  wide  expanse  which  had  been  rendered 
desolate  ;  the  spaces  of  common  ground,  with  golden  blos- 
somed gorse  and  wild  thyme,  continued  such  as  they  had 
been,  but  trees  grew  thick  and  fast,  the  beautiful  groves 
became  woods  in  the  course  of  a  short  time,  and  the  once 
cultivated  country  was  rapidly  absorbed  in  the  wilderness 
portions  of  Ytchtene. 

The    "  memorial    tree,"    which  ,now    stands    lone    and 


112          THE  DESOLATION  OF  YTCHTENE. 


seamed,  was  then  a  sapling,  for  such  we  may  conjecture  to 
have  been  the  case,  according  to  the  well-known  longevity  of 
forest-trees.  Three  events  of  great  interest  are  associated 
with  it — the  making  desolate  a  wide  extent  of  country  ;  the 
death  of  the  proud  Norman,  by  whose  command  the  work  of 
ruin  was  achieved  ;  and  the  untimely  end  of  his  successor. 

Had  the  history  of  William  I.  been  written  with  reference 
to  his  private  actions,  it  might  be  noticed  that  a  tissue  of 
domestic  sorrows  succeeded  to  the  laying  desolate  of  Ytchtene. 
His  wife  Matilda  died  a  few  years  after,  and  his  fair  daugh- 
ter Gundreda,  the  cherished  one  in  her  father's  house,  was 
cut  off  in  the  flower  of  her  youth.  He  saw  with  grief  the 
jealousy  that  subsisted  between  his  sons  William  and  Henry ; 
and  during  the  time  that  Duke  Robert,  his  first-born,  con- 
tinued an  exile  and  a  fugitive,  Richard,  his  second  son,  was 
gored  to  death  by  a  stag,  as  he  was  hunting  over  the  wide 
expanse  which  his  father  had  depopulated.  Men  spoke  of 
the  sad  event  as  a  just  punishment  on  him  who  had  respected 
neither  the  lives  nor  feelings  of  those  who  once  had  dwelt 
there.  Some  said,  this  is  but  one ;  we  shall  see  others  of  his 
family  to  whom  the  forest  will  prove  fatal,  and  they  spoke 
true. 

War  was  declared  with  France,  and  the  king  shortly  after- 
wards departed  for  the  continent.  The  object  of  the  expedi- 
tion was  expressly  to  take  possession  of  the  city  of  Mantes, 
with  a  rich  territory  situated  between  the  Epte  and  the  Oise. 
The  corn  was  nearly  ready  for  the  sickle,  and  the  grapes 
hung  in  ripening  clusters  on  the  vines,  when  the  fierce  king 
ordered  his  men  to  advance  on  the  devoted  territory ;  when 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit  he  marched  his  cavalry  through 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE.  113 

the  corn-fields,  and  caused  his  soldiers  to  tear  up  the  vines 
and  cut  down  the  pleasant  trees.  Mantes  could  offer  but  a 
weak  resistance,  and  the  town  was  set  on  fire.  Riding  be- 
side the  ruined  town,  to  view  the  misery  which  he  had 
wrought,  the  horse  of  the  Norman  conqueror  trod  on  some  hot 
cinders ;  the  frightened  creature  plunged  violently,  and  the 
king  being  unable  to  retain  his  seat,  fell  to  the  ground.  The 
injury  which  he  sustained  caused  him  to  be  carried  in  a  litter 
to  a  religious  house,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rouen,  where  his 
army  was  encamped,  for  he  could  not  bear,  he  said,  the  noise 
of  the  great  city.  It  was  told  by  those  who  were  present  at 
the  time,  that  although  he  at  first  preserved  much  apparent 
dignity,  and  conversed  calmly  on  the  events  of  his  past  life, 
and  concerning  the  vanity  of  human  greatness  ;  when  death 
drew  near,  the  case  was  otherwise.  He  then  spoke  and  felt 
as  a  dying  man,  who  was  shortly  to  appear  before  the  tri- 
bunal of  his  Maker,  there  to  render  an  account  of  all  the 
deeds  which  he  had  done,  of  all  the  gifts  committed  to  his 
care,  of  his  riches  and  his  power.  His  hard  heart  softened 
then,  and  he  bitterly  bewailed  the  cruelties  which  he  had 
committed. 

One  morning  early,  the  chief  prelates  and  barons  received 
a  summons  to  assemble  with  all  haste  in  the  chamber  of  the 
king,  who  finding  his  end  approach,  desired  to  finish  the  set- 
tlement of  his  affairs.  They  came  accordingly,  though  the 
day  had  not  yet  dawned,  and  found  him  with  his  two  sons, 
Henry  and  William,  who  waited  impatiently  for  the  declara- 
tion of  his  will.  "  I  bequeath  the  duchy  of  Normandy," 
said  he,  "  to  my  eldest  son  Robert.  As  to  the  crown  of  En- 
gland, I  bequeath  it  to  no  one,  for  I  did  not  receive  it,  like 


114  THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE. 

the  duchy  of  Normandy,  from  my  father,  but  acquired  it  by 
conquest  and  the  shedding  of  blood,  with  mine  own  sword. 
The  succession  of  that  kingdom,  I  therefore,  leave  to  the  de- 
cision of  the  Almighty.  My  own  most  fervent  wish  is,  that 
my  sou  William,  who  has  ever  been  dutiful  to  me  in  all  things, 
may  obtain  and  prosper  in  it."  "  And  what  do  you  give  me, 

0  my  father  1 "  impatiently  cried  Prince  Henry,  who  had 
not  been   mentioned.      "  Five    thousand   pounds  weight  of 
silver  out  of  my  treasury,"  was  his  answer.    "  But  what  can 

1  do  with  five  thousand  pounds  of  silver,  if  I  have  neither 
lands  nor  a  home  1  "      "Be  patient,"    rejoined   the   king, 
"  and  have  trust  in  the  Lord ;  suffer  thy  elder  brothers  to 
precede  thee — thy  time  will  come  after  theirs."     On  hearing 
this,  Prince  Henry  hurried  off  to  secure  the  silver,  which  he 
weighed  with  great  care,  and  then  provided  himself  with  a 
strong  coffer,  having  locks  and   iron   bindings   to  keep  his 
treasure  safe.    William,  also,  staid  no  longer  by  the  bed-side 
of  his    dying   parent ;    he    called   for   his   attendants,  and 
hastened  to  the  coast,  that  he  might  pass  over  without  delay 
to  take  possession  of  his  crown.    He,  whose  sword  had  made 
many  childless,   was  thus  deserted  in  his  hour  of  greatest 
need  by  his  unnatural  sons. 

His  last  sigh  was  a  signal  for  a  general  flight  and  scram- 
ble. The  knights  buckled  on  their  spurs,  and  the  priests 
and  doctors,  who  had  passed  the  night  by  his  bed-side,  made 
no  delay  in  leaving  their  wearisome  occupation.  "  To  horse  ! 
to  horse  ! "  resounded  through  the  monastery,  and  each  one 
galloped  off  to.  his  own  home,  in  order  to  secure  his  interests 
or  his  property.  A  few  of  the  king's  servants,  and  some 
vassals  of  minor  rank  staid  behind,  but  not  to  do  honor  tc 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE.  115 


the  poor  remains  of  him  who  had  been  their  king.  They 
spoke  loudly  and  trod  heavily,  where  but  a  short  time  be- 
fore men  would  scarcely  have  dared  to  whisper  ;  where  the 
noiseless  step  and  hushed  sound,  told  the  rank  and  sufferings 
of  him,  whom  now  the  voice  of  seven  thunders  would  not 
wake.  They  proceeded  without  remorse  to  rifle  the  apart- 
ment both  of  arms  and  silver  vessels ;  they  even  took  away 
the  linen  and  royal  vestments,  and  having  hastily  packed 
them  in  bundles,  each  man  threw  the  one,  which  he  secured, 
upon  his  steed,  and  galloped  away  like  the  rest.  From  six 
till  nine  the  corpse  of  the  mighty  conqueror  lay  on  the  bare 
boards,  with  scarcely  a  sheet  to  cover  him.  At  length  the 
monks  and  clergy  recollected  the  condition  of  the  deceased 
monarch,  and  forming  a  procession,  they  went  with  a  crucifix 
and  lighted  tapers  to  pray  over  the  dishonored  body.  The 
Archbishop  of  Rouen  wished  that  the  interment  should  take 
place  at  Caen,  in  preference  to  his  own  city,  it  being  thought 
most  proper  that  the  church  of  St.  Stephen,  which  the  king 
had  built,  and  royally  endowed,  should  be  honored  with  his 
sepulchre.  Arrangements  were  made  accordingly,  and  the 
corpse  being  carried  by  water  to  Caen,  was  received  by  the 
abbots  and  monks  of  St.  Stephen.  Mass  was  performed,  the 
Bishop  of  Evreux  pronounced  a  panegyric  on  him  who  had 
borne  the  name  of  Conqueror  while  living,  and  who  had  done 
great  deeds  among  his  fellow-men,  and  the  bier  on  which  lay 
the  body  of  the  king,  attired  in  royal  robes,  and  being  in  no 
respect  concealed  from  the  view,  was  about  to  be  lowered  into 
the  grave,  when  a  stern  voice  forbade  the  interment.  "  Bi- 
shop," it  said,  "  the  man  whom  you  have  praised  was  a  rob- 
ber. The  very  ground  on  which  we  are  standing  is  mine ; 


THE  DESOLATION  OF  YTCHTENE. 


and  this  is  the  site  of  my  father's  house.  He  took  it  frocc 
me  by  violence  to  build  this  church  upon  its  ruins.  I  reclaim 
it  as  my  right,  and  in  the  name  of  the  Most  High  I  forbid 
you  to  bury  him  there,  or  to  cover  him  with  my  glebe."  The 
man  who  spoke  thus  boldly,  was  Asseline  Fitz-  Arthur.  He 
had  vainly  sought  for  justice  from  the  king  while  living,  and 
he  loudly  proclaimed  the  fact  of  his  injustice  and  oppression, 
before  his  face,  when  dead.  Many  who  were  present  well 
remembered  the  pulling  down  of  Fitz-Arthur's  house,  and 
the  distress  which  it  occasioned,  and  the  bishop,  being  assured 
of  the  fact,  gave  his  son  sixty  shillings  for  the  grave  alone, 
and  engaged  to  procure  the  full  value  of  his  land.  One  mo- 
ment more,  and  the  corpse  remained  among  living  men; 
another,  and  it  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of  the  tomb,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  ceremony  being  hurried  over,  the  as- 
sembly broke  up  in  haste. 


Barons  and  men-at-arms  were  assembled  in  Malwood- 
Keep,  at  the  invitation  of  William  Rufus,  who  proposed  to 
hold  a  chase,  and  to  follow  the  red-deer  over  the  wide  hunt- 
ing-grounds, where  once  stood  the  pleasant  homes,  which  his 
father  had  rendered  desolate.  William  was  preparing  for 
the  chase,  when  an  artizan  brought  him  six  new  arrows.  He 
praised  their  workmanship,  and  putting  aside  four  for  him- 
self, he  gave  the  other  two  to  Sir  Walter  Tyrrel,  or,  as  he 
was  often  called,  Sir  Walter  de  Poix,  from  his  estates  in 
France,  saying,  as  he  presented  them,  "Good  weapons  are 
due  to  him,  who  knows  how  to  make  a  right  use  of  them." 
Many  of  the  younger  barons  were  already  mounted,  and  their 
horses  were  curvetting  on  the  grass,  as  though  they  partook 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE.  117 


of  the  impatience  of  their  riders,  while  every  now  and  then 
the  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn,  in  the  hand  of  some  young 
squire,  gave  notice  to  those  within  that  the  sun  was  already 
high.  All  was  gaiety  and  animation,  and  boisterous  mirth 
within  and  around  Malwood-Keep,  when  a  stranger  was  seen 
approaching  through  the  forest,  grave,  and  yet  in  haste.  He 
spoke  as  one  who  had  business  of  moment  to  communicate, 
and  which  admitted  of  no  delay,  but  his  look  and  voice  suf- 
ficed to  check  the  eagerness  of  those  who  sought  to  know 
whence  and  why  he  came.  He  told  the  king,  when  ad- 
mitted to  his  presence,  that  he  had  travelled  both  far  and 
fast ;  that  the  Norman  abbot  of  St.  Peter's  at  Gloucester 
had  sent  to  inform  his  majesty  how  greatly  he  was  troubled 
on  his  account,  for  that  one  of  his  monks  had  dreamed  a 
dream  which  foreboded  a  sudden  and  awful  death  to  him. 
"  To  horse  !"  hastily  exclaimed  the  king,  "  Walter  de  Poix, 
do  you  think  that  I  am  one  of  those  fools  who  give  up  their 
pleasure  or  their  business  for  such  matters  1  the  man  is  a 
true  monk,  he  dreameth  for  the  sake  of  money ;  give  him  an 
hundred  pence,  and  bid  him  dream  of  better  fortune  to  our 
person." 

Forth  went  the  hunting  train,  and  while  some  rode  one 
way,  some  another,  according  to  the  manner  adopted  in  the 
chase,  Sir  Walter  de  Tyrrel,  the  king's  especial  favorite, 
remained  with  him,  and  their  dogs  hunted  together.  They 
had  good  sport,  and  none  thought  of  returning,  although  tho 
sun  was  sinking  in  the  west  and  the  shadows  of  the  forest- 
trees  began  to  lengthen  on  the  grass,  at  which  time  an  hart 
came  bounding  by,  between  the  king  and  his  companion,  who 
stood  concealed  in  a  thicket.  The  king  drew  his  bow,  but 


118  THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE. 


the  string  broke,  and  the  arrow  took  no  effect;  the  hart 
being  startled  at  the  sound,  paused  in  his  speed,  and  looked 
on  all  sides,  as  if  doubtful  which  way  to  turn.  The  king, 
meanwhile  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  creature,  raised  his  bri 
die-hand  above  his  eyes,  that  he  might  shade  them  from  the 
glare  of  the  sun,  which  now  shone  almost  horizontally 
through  the  forest,  and  being  unprovided  with  a  second  bow, 
he  called  out  "  Shoot,  Walter,  shoot  away  !"  Tyrrel  drew 
his  bow,  but  the  arrow  went  not  forth  in  a  straight  line,  it 
glanced  against  a  tree  and  struck  the  king  in  its  side-course 
against  his  breast,  which  was  left  exposed  by  the  raised  arm. 
The  fork-head  pierced  his  heart,  and  in  an  instant  he  ex- 
pired. Sir  Walter  flew  to  his  side,  but  he  saw  that  his  mas- 
ter was  beyond  all  human  aid,  and  mounting  his  horse  he 
hastened  to  the  sea-coast,  from  whence  he  embarked  for  Nor- 
mandy. He  was  heard  of  soon  after,  as  having  fled  into  the 
dominions  of  the  French  king,  and  the  next  account  of  him 
was,  that  he  had  gone  to  the  Holy  Land. 

Rufus  had  left  the  bed-side  of  his  dying  parent  while  life 
still  lingered,  intent  only  on  obtaining  the  English  crown  ; 
he  even  left  the  care  of  hia  interment  to  the  hands  of 
strangers,  for  it  does  not  seem  that  he  at  all  concerned  him- 
self about  the  matter.  Now  then  was  he  also  left  alone,  in 
the  depth  of  the  still  forest.  His  companions  in  the  chase 
were  eagerly  following  their  amusement,  and  chanced  not  to 
pass  where  he  was  lying.  At  length  the  royal  corpse  was 
discovered  by  a  poor  charcoal-burner,  who  put  it,  still  bleed 
ing,  into  his  cart,  and  drove  off  to  Winchester.  The  intelli- 
gence soon  spread,  and  Henry  hastened  to  seize  the  treasures 
that  belonged  to  the  crown,  while  the  knights,  who  had 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    YTCHTENE.  119 

re-assembled  at  Malwood-Keep,  thought  only  how  the  acci- 
dent might  affect  themselves  ;  no  one  caring  to  show  respect 
to  the  remains  of  the  unhappy  monarch,  with  whom  they  had 
banquetted  the  evening  before.  It  was  afterwards  observed 
by  many,  that  as  the  corpse  of  the  Conqueror  lay  extended 
on  a  board,  with  scarcely  a  vestment  to  cover  him,  so,  by  a 
reasonable  coincidence,  the  body  of  his  unnatural  son,  un- 
washed, without  even  a  mantle,  and  hideous  to  look  upon,  re- 
mained in  the  cart  of  the  charcoal-burner  till  the  next  day, 
when  it  was  conveyed  in  the  same  condition  to  the  cathedral 
church  of  Winchester.  There,  however,  some  faint  show  of 
respect  was  paid  to  what  had  been  a  king  :  it  was  interred 
in  the  centre  of  the  choir,  where,  as  wrote  the  chronicler  of 
this  sad  history,  many  persons  looked  on,  but  few  grieved. 
It  was  even  said  by  some,  that  the  fall  of  a  high  tower  which 
covered  his  tomb  with  ruins,  showed  the  just  displeasure  of 
Heaven  against  one,  who  having  deserted  his  dying  parent, 
sought  not  to  repair  the  evils  which  he  had  done,  who,  neither 
acting  justly  nor  living  righteously,  was  undeserving  of 
Christian  burial. 


120  ADDRESS    TO    NIGHT. 


A11&388   S®   BlftSZ, 

BY     L.     C.     LEVIN. 

HAIL,  goddess'  of  the  gloomy  hour ! 

I  love  thy  faint  and  lonely  ray ; 
Thy  deepest  shadows  please  me  more 

Than  all  the  gorgeous  light  of  day. 

T  love  thee  when  the  vault  of  heaven 
With  lightning  fires  is  sheeted  o'er, 

And  field  and  forest,  thunder  riven, 
Quake  with  the  elemental  roar. 

I  love  thee,  too,  when  not  a  breath 
Breaks  thy  expressive  stillness ;  when 

It  seems  as  if  triumphant  death 
Reigned  over  all  that  once  were  men. 

Oh  !  let  intrusive  memory  lose 
All  thoughts  of  objects  felt  or  seen, 

A.nd  fancy  paint  in  quaintest  hues, 
What  ne'er  will  be  nor  e'er  has  been. 

I'll  think  my  soul,  in  ages  past, 
Was  tenant  of  some  brighter  sphere ; 

And  for  some  dark  transgression,  cast 
To  work  its  absolution  here. 

But,  day  appears — my  fellow  men 
Rise  up,  like  monsters  from  their  lair ; 

I  see  myself  like  them,  and  then, 
Think  my  lot  hopeless,  and — despair. 


A»    EVENING   AT    HOME.  121 


AST 


BY     KATE     SUTHERLAND 


u  NOT  going  to  the  ball  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lindley,  with  a  look 
and  tone  of  surprise.  "  What  has  come  over  the  girl  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  she  says  she's  not  going." 

"  Doesn't  her  ball  dress  fit  V 

"  Yes,  beautifully." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then?" 

"  Indeed,  ma,  I  cannot  tell.  You  had  better  go  up  and 
see  her.  It  is  the  strangest  notion  in  the  world.  Why,  you 
couldn't  hire  me  to  stay  at  home." 

Mrs.  Lindley  went  up  stairs,  and  entering  her  daughter's 
room,  found  her  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  a  beauti- 
ful ball  dress  in  her  hand. 

"  It  isn't  possible,  Helen,  that  you  are  not  going  to  this 
balH"  she  said. 

Helen  looked  up  with  a  half  serious,  half  smiling  expres 
sion  on  her  face. 

"  I've  been  trying,  for  the  last  half  hour,"  she  replied, 
"  to  decide  whether  I  ought  to  go,  or  stay  at  home.  I  think, 
perhaps,  I  ought  to  remain  at  home." 

"  But  what  earthly  reason  can  you  have  for  doing  so  ? 
Don't  you  like  your  dress  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  very  much.     I  think  it  beautiful." 


122  AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

"  Doesn't  it  fit  you  ?" 

"  As  well  as  any  dress  I  ever  had." 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?  " 

"Very  well." 

"  Then  why  not  go  to  the  ball?  It  will  be  the  largest  and 
most  fashionable  of  the  season.  You  know  that  your  father 
and  myself  are  both  going.  We  shall  want  to  see  you  there, 
of  course.  Your  father  will  require  some  very  good  reason 
for  your  absence." 

Helen  looked  perplexed  at  her  mother's  last  remark. 

"  Do  you  think  father  will  be  displeased  if  I  remain  at 
home  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  he  will,  unless  you  can  satisfy  him  that  your 
reason  for  doing  so  is  a  very  good  one.  Nor  shall  I  feel  that 
you  are  doing  right.  I  wish  all  my  children  to  act  under 
the  government  of  a  sound  judgment.  Impulse,  or  reasons 
not  to  be  spoken  of  freely  to  their  parents,  should  in  no  case 
influence  their  actions." 

Helen  sat  thoughtful  for  more  than  a  minute,  and  then 
Baid,  her  eyes  growing  dim  as  she  spoke, 

"  I  wish  to  stay  at  home  for  Edward's  sake." 

"  And  why  for  his,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  He  doesn't  go  to  the  ball,  you  know." 

"  Because  he  is  too  young,  and  too  backward.  You 
couldn't  hire  him  to  go  there.  But,  that  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  remain  at  home.  You  would  never  partake  of 
any  social  amusement,  were  this  always  to  influence  you. 
Let  him  spend  the  evening  in  reading.  He  must  not  expect 
his  sisters  to  deny  themselves  all  recreation  in  which  he 
cannot  or  will  not  participate." 


AN    EVENING    AT    HOME.  123 


"  He  does  not.  I  know  he  would  not  hear  to  such  a  thing 
as  my  staying  at  home  on  his  account." 

"  Then  why  stay  1 " 

"  Because  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  do  so.  This  is  the  way  I 
have  felt  all  day,  whenever  I  have  thought  of  going.  If  I 
were  to  go,  I  know  that  I  would  not  have  a  moment's  enjoy- 
ment. He  need  not  know  why  I  remain  at  home.  To  tell 
him  that  I  did  not  wish  to  go  will  satisfy  his  mind." 

"  I  shall  not  urge  the  matter,  Helen,"  Mrs.  Lindley  said, 
after  a  silence  of  some  moments.  "  You  are  old  enough  to 
judge  in  a  matter  of  this  kind  for  yourself.  But,  I  must 
say,  I  think  you  rather  foolish.  You  will  not  find  Edward 
disposed  to  sacrifice  so  much  for  you." 

"  Of  that  I  do  not  think,  mother.  Of  that  I  ought  not  to 
think." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Well,  you  may  do  as  you  like.  But,  I 
don't  know  what  your  father  will  say." 

Mrs.  Lindley  then  left  the  room. 

Edward  Lindley  was  at  the  critical  age  of  eighteen  ;  that 
period  when  many  young  men,  especially  those  who  havo 
been  blessed  with  sisters,  would  have  highly  enjoyed  a  ball. 
But  Edward  was  shy,  timid  and  bashful  in  company,  and 
could  hardly  ever  be  induced  to  go  out  to  parties  with  his 
sisters.  Still,  he  was  intelligent  for  his  years,  and  compa- 
nionable. His  many  good  qualities  endeared  him  to  his 
family,  and  drew  forth  from  his  sisters  towards  him  a  very 
tender  regard. 

Among  his  male  friends  were  several  about  his  own  age, 
members  of  families  with  whom  his  own  was  on  friendly 
terms.  With  these  he  associated  frequently,  and,  with  twc 


124  AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 


or  three  others,  quite  intimately.  For  a  month  or  two, 
Helen  noticed  that  one  and  another  of  these  young  friends 
called  every  now  and  then  for  Edward,  in  the  evening,  and 
that  he  went  out  with  them  and  staid  until  bed-time.  But 
unless  his  sisters  were  from  home,  he  never  went  of  his  own 
accord.  The  fact  of  his  being  out  with  these  young  men, 
had,  from  the  first,  troubled  Helen ;  though,  the  reason  of 
her  feeling  troubled  she  could  not  tell.  Edward  had  good 
principles,  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  entertain  fears 
of  any  clearly-defined  evil.  Still  a  sensation  of  uneasiness 
was  always  produced  when  he  was  from  home  in  the  evening. 

Her  knowing  that  Edward  would  go  out,  after  they  had  all 
left,  was  the  reason  why  Helen  did  not  wish  to  attend  the 
ball.  The  first  thought  of  this  had  produced  an  unpleasant 
sensation  in  her  mind,  which  increased  the  longer  she  debated 
the  question  of  going  away,  or  remaining  at  home.  Finally, 
she  decided  that  she  would  not  go.  This  decision  took  place 
after  the  interview  with  her  mother,  which  was  only  half  an 
hour  from  the  time  of  starting. 

Edward  knew  nothing  of  the  intention  of  his  sister.  He 
was  in  his  own  room,  dressing  to  go  out,  and  supposed,  when 
he  heard  the  carriage  drive  from  the  door,  that  Helen  had 
gone  with  the  other  members  of  the  family.  On  descending 
to  the  parlor,  he  was  surprised  to  find  her  sitting  by  the 
centre  table,  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 

"  Helen !  Is  this  you  !  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  the 
ball.  Are  you  not  well  1 "  he  said  quickly  and  with  sur- 
prise, coming  up  to  her  side 

"  I  am  very  well,  brother,"  she  replied,  looking  into  his 
face  with  a  smile  of  sisterly  regard.  "  But  I  have  concluded 


AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 


to  stay  at  home  this  evening.     I'm  going  to  keep  your  com 
pany." 

"  Are  you,  indeed !  right  glad  am  I  of  it !  though  I  am 
Borry  you  have  deprived  yourself  of  the  pleasure  of  this  hall, 
which,  I  believe,  is  to  he  a  very  brilliant  one.  I  was  just 
going  out,  because  it  is  so  dull  at  home  when  you  are  all 
away." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  desirous  of  going  to  the  ball.  So 
little  so,  that  the  thoughts  of  you  being  left  here  all  alone 
had  sufficient  influence  over  me  to  keep  me  away." 

"  Indeed !  Well,  I  must  say  you  are  kind."  Edward 
returned,  with  feeling.  The  self-sacrificing  act  of  his  sister 
had  touched  him  sensibly. 

Both  Helen  and  her  brother  played  well.  She  upon  the 
harp  and  piano,  and  he  upon  the  flute  and  violin.  Both 
were  fond  of  music,  and  practised  and  played  frequently 
together.  Part  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  this  way,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  each.  Then  an  hour  passed  in  reading 
and  conversation,  after  which,  music  was  again  resorted  to. 
Thus  passed  the  time  pleasantly  until  the  hour  for  retiring 
came,  when  they  separated,  both  with  an  internal  feeling  of 
pleasure  more  delightful  than  they  had  experienced  for  a 
long  time.  It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  before  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lindley,  and  the  daughter  who  had  accompanied  them  to  the 
ball,  came  home.  Hours  before,  the  senses  of  both  Edward 
and  Helen  had  been  locked  in  forgetfulness. 

Time  passed  on.  Edward  Lindley  grew  up  and  became  a 
man  of  sound  principles — a  blessing  to  his  family  and  so- 
ciety. He  saw  his  sisters  well  married ;  and  himself 
finally,  led  to  the  altar  a  lovely  maiden.  She  made  him  a 


126  AH    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

truly  happy  husband.  On  the  night  of  his  wedding,  as  he 
sat  beside  Helen,  he  paused  for  some  time,  in  the  midst  of  a 
pleasant  conversation,  thoughtfully.  At  last,  he  said, 

"  Do  you  remember,  sister,  the  night  you  staid  home 
from  the  ball  to  keep  me  company  1 " 

"  That  was  many  years  ago.  Yes,  I  remember  it  very 
well,  now  you  have  recalled  it  to  my  mind." 

"  I  have  often  since  thought,  Helen,"  he  said,  with  a 
serious  air,  "  that  by  the  simple  act  of  thus  remaining  at 
home  for  my  sake,  you  were  the  means  of  saving  me  from 
destruction." 

"  How  so  1 "  asked  the  sister. 

"  I  was  just  then  beginning  to  form  an  intimate  associa 
tion  with  young  men  of  my  own  age,  nearly  all  of  whom  have 
since  turned  out  badly.  I  did  not  care  a  great  deal  about 
their  company  ;  still,  I  liked  society  and  used  to  be  with 
them  frequently — especially  when  you  and  Mary  went  out  in 
the  evening.  On  the  night  of  the  ball  to  which  you  were 
going,  these  young  men  had  a  supper,  and  I  was  to  have  been 
with  them.  I  did  not  wish  particularly  to  join  them,  but 
preferred  doing  so  to  remaining  at  home  alone.  To  find  you, 
as  I  did,  so  unexpectedly,  in  the  parlor,  was  an  agreeable 
surprise  indeed.  I  staid  at  home  with  a  new  pleasure,  which 
was  heightened  by  the  thought,  that  it  was  your  love  for  me 
that  had  made  you  deny  yourself  for  my  gratification.  We 
read  together  on  that  evening,  we  played  together,  we  talked 
of  many  things.  In  your  mind  I  had  never  before  seen  as 
much  to  inspire  my  own  with  high  and  pure  thoughts.  I 
remembered  the  conversation  of  the  young  men  with  whom  f 
nad  been  associating,  and  in  which  I  had  taken  pleasure, 


AN    EVENING    AT    HOME.  127 

with  something  like  disgust.  It  was  low,  sensual  and  too 
much  of  it  vile  and  demoralizing.  Never,  from  that  hour, 
did  I  join  them.  Their  way,  even  in  the  early  stage  of  life's 
journey,  I  saw  to  be  downward,  and  downward  it  has  ever 
since  been  tending.  How  often  since  have  I  thought  of  that 
point  in  time,  so  full-fraught  with  good  and  evil  influences. 
Those  few  hours  spent  with  you  seemed  to  take  scales  from 
my  eyes.  I  saw  with  a  new  vision.  I  thought  and  felt  dif- 
ferently. Had  you  gone  to  the  ball,  and  I  to  meet  those 
young  men,  no  one  can  tell  what  might  not  have  been  the 
consequence.  Sensual  indulgences,  carried  to  excess,  amid 
songs  and  sentiments  calculated  to  awaken  evil  instead  of  good 
feelings,  might  have  stamped  upon  my  young  and  delicate 
mind  a  bias  to  low  affections  that  never  would  have  been 
eradicated.  That  was  the  great  starting  point  in  life— the 
period  when  I  was  coming  into  a  state  of  rationality  and 
freedom.  The  good  prevailed  over  the  evil,  and  by  the 
agency  of  my  sister,  as  an  angel  sent  by  the  Author  of  all 
benefits  to  save  me." 

Like  Helen  Lindley,  let  every  elder  sister  be  thoughtful 
of  her  brothers  at  that  critical  period  in  life,  when  the  boy  is 
about  passing  up  to  the  stage  of  manhood,  and  she  may  save 
them  from  many  a  snare  set  for  their  unwary  feet  by  the  evil 
one.  In  closing  this  little  sketch,  we  can  say  nothing  better 
than  has  already  been  said  by  an  accomplished  American 
authoress,  Mrs.  Farrar. 

• "  So  many  temptations,"  she  says,  "  beset  young  men, 
of  which  young  women  know  nothing,  that  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  young  brothers'  evenings  should  be  happily 
passed  at  home,  that  their  friends  should  be  your  friends. 


128  AN    EVENING   AT    HOME. 


that  their  engagements  should  be  the  same  as  yours,  and  that 
various  innocent  amusements  should  be  provided  for  them  in 
the  family  circle.  Music  is  an  accomplishment,  chiefly  va- 
luable as  a  home  enjoyment,  as  rallying  round  the  piano  the 
various  members  of  a  family,  and  harmonizing  their  hearts 
as  well  as  voices,  particularly  in  devotional  strains.  I  know 
no  more  agreeable  and  interesting  spectacle,  than  that  of 
brothers  and  sisters  playing  and  singing  together  those  ele- 
vated compositions  in  music  and  poetry  which  gratify  the 
taste  and  purify  the  heart,  while  their  fond  parents  sit  de- 
lighted by.  I  have  seen  and  heard  an  elder  sister  thus  lead- 
ing the  family  choir,  who  was  the  soul  of  harmony  to  the 
whole  household,  and  whose  life  was  a  perfect  example  of 
those  virtues  which  I  am  here  endeavoring  to  inculcate.  Let 
no  one  say,  in  reading  this  chapter,  that  too  much  is  here 
required  of  sisters,  that  no  one  can  be  expected  to  lead  such 
a  self-sacrificing  life ;  for  the  sainted  one  to  whom  I  refer, 
was  all  I  would  ask  any  sister  to  be,  and  a  happier  person 
never  lived.  To  do  good  and  to  make  others  happy  was  her 
rule  of  life,  and  in  this  she  found  the  art  of  making  herself  so. 

"  Sisters  should  always  be  willing  to  walk,  ride,  visit  with 
their  brothers  ;  and  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  be  their  compa- 
nions. It  is  worth  while  to  learn  innocent  games  for  the 
sake  of  furnishing  brothers  with  amusements,  and  making 
home  the  most  agreeable  place  to  them 

"  I  have  been  told  by  some,  who  have  passed  unharmed 
through  the  temptations  of  youth,  that  they  owed  their 
escape  from  many  dangers  to  the  intimate  companionship  of 
affectionate  and  pure-minded  sisters.  They  have  been  saved 
from  a  hazardous  meeting  with  idle  company  by  some  home 


THE.    WIDOW'S    MITE.  129 


engagement,  of  which  their  sisters  were  the  charm ;  they 
have  refrained  from  mixing  with  the  impure,  because  they 
would  jiot  bring  home  thoughts  and  feelings  which  they  could 
not  share  with  those  trusting,  loving  friends  ;  they  have  put 
aside  the  wine- cup  and  abstained  from  stronger  potations, 
because  they  would  not  profane  with  their  fumes  the  holy 
kiss,  with  which  they  were  accustomed  to  bid  their  sisters 
good-night. 


»]H!   WI&QWS 


IT  is  the  fruit  of  waking  hours 

When  others  are  asleep, 
When  moaning  round  the  low  thatched  rooi 

The  winds  of  winter  creep. 

It  is  the  fruit  of  summer  days 

Passed  in  a  gloomy  room, 
When  others  are  abroad  to  taste 

The  pleasant  morning  bloom. 

'Tis  given  from  a  scanty  store 

And  missed  while  it  is  given  : 
'Tis  given  —  for  the  claims  of  earth 

Are  less  than  those  of  heaven. 


130  THE    FIRST    ORATTOr. 


S3!  3    27X313X    ilAffXiff. 

A  TEMPERANCE  society  was  to  be  formed  in  Lyonville,  and 
of  course  there  must  be  an  address  from  some  one.  No  pub- 
lic lecturer  happening  to  be  in  the  place,  those  engaged  in 
getting  up  the  meeting  pitched  upon  a  young  man  named 
Agnew  for  the  purpose,  and,  despite  of  all  objections  and  re- 
monstrance, extorted  from  him  the  promise  to  act  as  orator 
for  the  evening.  Agnew  had  talents,  was  a  good  talker  and 
a  warm  advocate  of  the  temperance  cause.  But  he  had  never 
spoken  in  public  beyond  an  occasional  argument  in  a  debat- 
ing club,  and  very  naturally  had  many  serious  doubts  as  to 
his  success.  He  had  only  three  or  four  days  for  the  work  of 
preparation.  At  first  he  tried  to  write  an  address ;  but  he 
failed  in  this  altogether.  He  had  not  the  faculty  of  thinking 
with  his  pen  in  hand.  Then  he  turned  his  subject  over  and 
over  again  in  his  mind,  lying  awake  upon  it  half  the 
night,  and  going  out  into  the  fields  early  in  the  morning  to 
exercise  himself  in  reading  aloud  or  speaking,  to  an  imagin- 
ary audience,  the  oration  he  had  composed. 

These  performances  were,  upon  the  whole,  quite  satisfac- 
tory to  the  young  orator ;  and  by  the  time  the  meeting  was 
to  be  held,  he  felt  fully  prepared  to  do  both  himself  and  his 
subject  ample  justice. 


THE   FIRST   ORATION.  131 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  little  village-church  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  For  the  three  hours  previous  to  the 
time  when  he  was  to  open  his  address,  Agnew  had  been 
repeating  it  over  and  over  again,  in  order  to  have  every  word 
perfect  in  his  memory.  But  as  the  period  drew  near,  he  felt 
more  and  more  nervous.  There  was  a  weight  on  his  breast, 
and  a  dry,  choking  sensation  in  his  throat.  On  entering  the 
church,  and  finding  it  so  crowded  with  spectators,  Agnew's 
knees  began  to  tremble ;  and  when  he  searched  about  in  his 
mind  for  the  opening  portion  of  his  address,  it  was  no  where 
to  be  found. 

Seating  himself  on  the  platform  temporarily  erected  for  the 
purposes  of  the  evening,  he  awaited,  in  a  state  of  nervous 
anxiety,  the  conclusion  of  the  preliminary  ceremonies,  still 
searching,  but  in  vain,  for  the  clue  to  his  oration.  Not  a 
single  portion  of  his  intended  speech  could  he  remember,  try 
as  he  would  to  recall  it. 

At  last  the  time  came.  There  was  deep  hush  of  expec- 
tation through  the  assembly.  All  eyes  were  upon  him.  Ris- 
ing, in  the  trembling  hope  that,  at  the  last  moment,  his 
speech  would  come,  he  said,  with  as  steady  a  voice  as  he 
could  assume, 

"  Mr.  President " 

Just  at  that  moment,  the  door  of  the  church  opened,  and  a 
man  who  sold  liquor  and  had  done  more  to  corrupt  and  de- 
moralize the  young  men  of  the  village  than  any  one  in  it, 
entered,  and,  with  a  look  of  defiance,  walked  boldly  down  the 
aisle,  and  took  his  seat  just  in  front  of  the  young  speaker. 
As  he  did  so,  he  perceived  Agnew's  embarrassment,  and 
gave  a  chuckle  of  enjoyment. 


|32  THE    FIRST    ORATION. 

"  Mr.  President,"  said  the  speaker,  as  the  liquor-seller  thus 
noted  his  confusion.  His  voice  was  steadier  than  before. 
"  It  is  related,  that,  in  old  times,  when  the  sons  of  the  Lord 
came  up  to  worship,  Satan  came  also." 

He  paused,  looking  steadily  at  the  tavern-keeper ;  and  the 
eves  of  the  whole  congregation  followed  his  gaze. 

"  It  is  also  said,"  he  continued,  "  that  there  is  joy  in  hea- 
ven over  one  sinner  that  repenteth.  Happily,  Satan  cannot 
now  appear  among  us  in  bodily  form.  Many  who  have 
served  Satan,  however,  are  here,  but  I  sincerely  trust  as  the 
repentant  sinners  over  whom  heaven  rejoices." 

Thus  opening,  extemporaneously,  he  continued,  turning 
his  reference  to  the  liquor-seller  to  such  good  account  as  to 
disarm  his  resentment,  while  he  deeply  interested  both  him 
and  the  whole  audience.  His  address  was  most  admirable, 
yet  not  a  line  of  what  he  had  prepared  was  uttered. 

When  he  sat  down  and  the  pledge  was  presented,  the  old 
liquor-seller  was  the  first  to  sign.  So  much  for  Agnew's  first 
oration.  He  has  made  many  since  ;  but  none  that  will  be 
remembered  in  Lyonville  as  long  as  his  maiden  speech. 

S.  A. 


WHY  DON'T  HE  COME.  133 


H¥    fflOB'S    JS$    CQHS. 

WHY  don't  he  come  ? — the  morning  light, 
In  amber  rays,  break  from  the  east ; 

He  said  he  would  come  back  last  night, 
Nor  tarry  at  the  midnight  feast. 

Ah,  that  the  revel  and  the  song 

Should  lure  him  from  my  smiles  away, 

The  vigil  why  did  he  prolong 
In  politician's  idle  fray  ? 

When  the  last  evening's  hymn  was  sung, 
My  babes  a  wondering  silence  kept, 

And  with  his  name  upon  its  tougue, 
Each  little  innocent  has  slept. 

Until  the  waning  moon"  was  high, 

A  silent  watch  I  here  did  keep  ; 
But  slow,  the  long,  long  hours  went  by, 

And  I  retired,  alone  to  weep. 

I  see  him  not — he  little  knows 

The  pain  this  faithful  heart  must  feel ; 

Oh,  that  his  own  may  find  repose, 
Nor  be  consumed  by  party  zeal. 

The  sun  is  up — yet  he  comes  not, 

To  light  with  joy  our  peaceful  home  ; 

These  revels  are  with  ruin  fraught — 
I  wonder  why  he  does  not  come  ! 


Miuos*. 


134  BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHTS. 


3SJLW2I1WS 


FROM     MISS     BREMER. 

CHRISTMAS  IN  SWEDEN.  —  How  cold,  how  gloomy  it  is! 
The  window-panes  are  covered  with  ice,;  the  morning  twi- 
light extends  its  hand  to  the  evening  twilight,  and  the  dark 
night  entombs  the  day.  In  Norland,  however,  the  mid-day 
has  a  few  bright  moments  ;  the  sun  sheds  still  a  few  feeble 
beams,  then  he  quickly  disappears  and  it  becomes  dark. 
Farther  up  in  the  country  people  know  nothing  more  of 
day  —  the  night  endures  for  months. 

They  say  in  the  North,  that  "  Nature  sleeps,"  but  this 
sleep  resembles  death  ;  like  death,  it  is  cold  and  ghastly, 
and  would  obscure  the  heart  of  man,  did  not  another  light 
descend  at  the  same  time  —  if  it  did  not  open  to  the  heart  a 
warmer  bosom  and  animate  it  with  its  life.  In  Sweden  they 
know  this  very  well,  and  while  every  thing  sleeps  and  dies 
in  nature,  all  is  set  in  motion  in  all  hearts  and  homes  for  the 
celebration  of  a  festival.  Ye  know  it  well,  ye  industrious 
daughters  of  home,  ye  who  strain  your  hands  and  eyes  by 
lamplight  quite  late  into  the  night  to  prepare  presents.  You 
know  it  well,  you  sons  of  the  house,  you  who  bite  your  nails 
in  order  to  puzzle  out  "what  in  all  the  world"  you  shall 
choose  for  Christmas  presents.  Thou  knowest  it  well,  thou 
fair  child,  who  hast  no  other  anxiety  than  lest  the  Christ- 


BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHTS.  135 


man  should  loose  his  way  and  pass  by  thy  door.  You  know 
it  well,  you  fathers  and  mothers,  with  empty  purses  and  full 
hearts ;  ye  aunts  and  cousins  of  the  great  and  immortal  race 
of  needlewomen  and  workers  in  wool — ye  welcome  and  un- 
welcome uncles  and  male  cousins,  ye  know  it  well,  this  time 
of  mysterious  countenances  and  treacherous  laughter  !  In 
the  houses  of  the  rich,  fat  roasts  are  prepared  and  dried 
fish  ;  sausages  pour  forth  their  fat,  and  tarts  puff  themselves 
up ;  nor  is  there  any  hut  so  poor  as  not  to  have  at  this  time 
a  sucking-pig  squeaking  in  it,  which  must  endeavor,  for  the 
greater  part,  to  grow  fat  with  its  own  good  humor. 

It  is  quite  otherwise  with  the  elements  at  this  season. 
The  cold  reigns  despotically  ;  it  holds  all  life  fettered  in  na- 
ture ;  restrains  the  heaving  of  the  sea'8  bosom  ;  destroys 
every  sprouting  grass  blade  ;  forbids  the  birds  to  sing  and 
the  gnats  to  sport ;  and  only  its  minister,  the  powerful  north 
wind,  rolls  freely  forth  into  gray  space,  and  takes  heed  that 
every  thing  keeps  itself  immoveable  and  silent.  The  spar- 
rows only — those  optimists  of  the  air — remain  merry,  and 
appear  by  their  twittering  to  announce  better  times. 

At  length  comes  the  darkest  moments  of  the  year,  the 
midnight  hour  of  nature  ;  and  suddenly  light  streams  forth 
from  all  habitations  and  emulates  the  stars  of  heaven.  The 
church  opens  its  bosom  full  of  brightness  and  thanksgiving, 
and  the  children  shout,  full  of  gladness,  "  It  is  Christmas  !  it 
is  Christmas  !"  Earth  sends  her  hallelujah  on  high  ! 

And  wherefore  this  light,  this  joy,  this  thanksgiving  1 
"  A  Child  is  born  !"  A  child  !  In  the  hour  of  night,  in 
a  lowly  manger,  he  has  been  born ;  and  angels  have  also 
sung,  "  Peace  on  earth  !"  This  is  the  festival  which  shall  be 


BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHTS. 


celebrated  —  and  well  may  ye,  you  dear  children,  sound  forth 
your  cries  of  joy  !  Welcome,  even  though  unconsciously, 
the  hour  in  which  this  Friend,  this  Brother,  was  born  to 
you  ;  who  shall  guide  you  through  life,  who  shall  lighten  the 
hour  of  death  to  you,  and  who  one  day  shall  verify  the 
dreams  of  your  childhood  ;  who  shall  stand  beside  you  in 
necessity  and  care,  and  shall  help  to  answer  the  great  ques- 
tions of  life.  Rejoice,  ye  happy  children,  whom  He  blesses  ! 
Rejoice,  an^  follow  after  Him  !  He  is  come  to  lead  you  and 
all  of  us  to  God  ! 

There  are  inexhaustible,  love-inspiring,  wonderful,  en- 
trancing thoughts,  in  which  man  is  never  weary  of  plunging. 
The  sick  soul  bathes  in  them  as  in  a  Bethesda,  and  is  made 
whole  —  and  in  them  the  healthy  find  an  elevating  life's  re- 
freshment. Of  this  kind  are  the  thoughts  on  that  Child  — 
His  .poverty,  His  lowliness,  His  glory  ! 

FATHERS  OF  FAMILIES.  —  Thou  who  sittest  at  thy  table 
like  a  thunder-cloud  charged  with  lightning,  and  scoldest  the 
wife  and  the  cook  about  the  dinner,  so  that  the  morsel  sticks 
in  the  throat  of  the  mother  and  children  —  thou  who  makest 
unhappy  wife  and  child  and  servants  —  thou  who  preparest 
for  every  dish  a  bitter  sauce  out  of  thy  gall—  shame  and  in- 
digestion to  thee  ! 

BUT  —  Honor  and  long  life  to  a  good  stomach,  and  espe- 
cially all  good  to  thee  who  sittest  at  thy  table  like  bright 
sunshine  ;  thou  who  lookest  round  thee  to  bless  the  enjoy- 
ment of  thy  family  —  by  thy  friendly  glance,  thy  kind  speech, 
callest  forth  sportiveness  and  appetite,  and  thereby  lendest 
to  the  gifts  of  God  a  better  strength,  a  finer  flavor  than  the 
piofoundest  art  of  the  cook  is  able  to  confer  upon  them  — 


BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS.  137 


honor  to  thee,  and  joys  in  abundance.  May  good-will  ever 
spread  the  table  for  thee  ;  may  friendly  faces  ever  sit  round 
thy  dishes.  Honor  and  joy  to  thee  ! 

NATURE.- — The  wind  on  the  sea,  the  air  on  the  mountain, 
the  sea-like  sound  in  the  wood,  the  fresh,  fresh  breath  of  na- 
ture, which  expels  care  and  refreshes  life — I  praise  you  ! 
Who  has  not  felt  himself  elevated — when  he  has  returned 
from  the  house  of  mourning,  from  the  impure  atmosphere  of 
society,  and  from  the  exhaustion  of  business  ?  Wonderful, 
powerful,  care -free  life  in  the  air,  in  the  water,  and  in  the 
earth  !  Mighty  Nature,  how  I  love  thee,  and  how  gladly 
would  I  lead  all  hearts  to  thee  !  In  hostility  to  thee,  life  is 
a  burthen  ;  in  peace  with  thee,  we  have  a  presentiment  of  the 
repose  of  Paradise.  Thy  storms  sound  through  the  immor- 
tal harps  of  Ossian  and  Byron  ;  in  the  songs  of  the  sea- 
heroes — in  the  romances  of  the  north,  breathes  thy  life.  The 
feeling  heart  owes  to  thee  its  best  and  freshest  sentiments. 
To  her  also  who  pens  these  lines  hast  thou  given  new  life. 
Her  soul  was  sick  to  death,  and  she  cast  herself  on  thy  bo- 
som. Thou  didst  raise  her  up  again  ;  she  received  power  to 
lift  herself  up  to  God. 

SELFISHNESS  AND  EGOTISM. — It  is  indeed  a  terrible 
sight,  that  of  a  man  who  has  so  completely  smothered  every 
thing  divine  in  his  nature,  that  nothing  remains  but  a  horri- 
ole  egotism.  To  such  a  one  nothing  is  sacred  ;  to  accom- 
plish his  will  and  to  satisfy  his  humor,  he  hesitates  at  none, 
no,  not  the  most  criminal  means,  and  finds  a  pleasure  in 
making  himself  a  tormentor. 

THE  FAR  NORTH. — So  poor,  so  waste,  so  gloomily  does 
nature  here  present  herself — monotonous,  but  great !  Great, 


138  BEAUTIFUL,  THOUGHTS. 


since  she  is  eternal,  without  change,  without  disquiet.  Proud 
and  immovable  in  her  poverty,  she  casts  from  her  the  indus- 
try of  men,  the  affluence  of  agriculture,  and  renounces  every 
joy,  but  at  the  same  time  every  fetter.  She  turns  away  hef 
countenance  from  life,  draws  the  winding-sheet  around  her, 
and  seems  to  rejoice  herself  in  everlasting  repose. 

LIFE'S  MOONLIGHT. — There  is  also  a  moonlight  in  human 
life — a  moonlight  in  the  hearts  of  men.  It  ascends  cheer- 
fully after  a  disquieting,  stormy  day.  It  has  the  reconciling 
of  light  and  shade ;  a  bright  twilight ;  a  still  melancholy  ;  a 
soft  slumbering  of  feeling ;  a  wo — but  it  also  is  a  benefit : 
then  are  shed  quiet  tears,  gentle  and  refreshing  as  the  dew 
upon  the  scorched-up  valleys.  Often,  however,  is  it  a  long 
time  before  this  repose,  this  heavenly  light,  descends  into  the 
heart ;  often  is  it  tempested  so  long. 

THE  BRIDAL  HOUR. — We  array  ourselves  for  marriages  in 
flowers  ;  and  wear  dark  mourning-dresses  for  the  last  sor- 
rowful festivity  which  attends  a  fellow  being  to  his  repose. 
And  this  often  might  be  exactly  reversed.  But  the  custom 
is  beautiful — for  the  sight  of  a  young  bride  invites  the  heart 
involuntarily  to  joy.  The  festal  attire,  the  myrtle  wreath 
upon  the  virgin  brows  ;  all  the  affectionate  looks,  and  the  an- 
ticipations of  the  future,  which  beautifully  accompany  her — 
all  enrapture  us.  One  sees  in  them  a  new  home  of  love 
raised  on  earth  ;  a  peaceful  Noah's  ark  on  the  wild  flood  of 
life,  in  which  the  white  dove  of  peace  will  dwell  and  build  her 
nest ;  loving  children,  affectionate  words,  looks,  and  love- 
warm  hearts,  will  dwell  in  the  new  home  ;  friends  will  enjoy 
themselves  under  its  hospitable  roof ;  and  much  beautiful 
activity,  and  many  a  beautiful  gift  will  thence  go  forth,  and 


BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS.  13Q 


full  of  blessing  diffuse  itself  over  life.  There  stands  the 
young  bride,  creator  of  all  this — hopes  and  joys  go  forth 
from  her.  No  one  thinks  of  sufferings  at  a  marriage  festival. 

And  if  the  eyes  of  the  bride  stand  full  of  tears  ;  if  her 
cheeks  are  pale,  and  her  whole  being — when  the  bridegroom 
approaches  her,  fearful  and  ill  at  ease — even  then  people  will 
not  think  of  misfortune.  Cousins  and  aunts  wink  at  one 
another  and  whisper,  "  I  was  just  so  on  my  wedding-day — 
but  that  passes  over  with  time !"  Does  a  more  deeply  and 
more  heavily  tried  heart  feel  perhaps  a  sigh  arise  within, 
when  it  contemplates  the  pale,  troubled  bride,  it  comforts 
itself,  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  marriage  joy,  with,  "  0 
that  is  the  way  of  the  world  ! " 

MISFORTUNES. — When  a  heart  breaks  under  the  burden 
of  its  sorrows — when  sickness  strikes  its  root  in  wounds 
opened  by  pain,  and  life  consumes  away  slowly  to  death,  then 
none  of  us  should  say  that  that  heavily-laden  heart  should 
not  have  broken  ;  that  it  might  have  exerted  its  strength  to 
bear  its  suffering.  No  ;  we  would  express  no  word  of  censure 
on  that  prostrated  spirit  because  it  could  not  raise  itself — 
before  its  resurrection  from  the  grave. 

But  beautiful,  strengthening,  and  glorious  is  the  view  of  a 
man  who  presents  a  courageous  and  patient  breast  to  the 
poisoned  arrows  of  life  ;  who  without  defiance  and  without 
weakness,  goes  upon  his  way  untroubled  ;  who  suffers  with- 
out complaint ;  whose  fairest  hopes  have  been  borne  down  to 
the  grave  by  fate,  and  who  yet  diffuses  joy  around  him,  and 
labors  for  the  happiness  of  others.  Ah,  how  beautiful  is  the 
view  of  such  a  one,  to  whom  the  crown  of  thorns  becomes 
the  glory  of  a  saint ! 


140  BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHTS. 

I  have  seen  more  than  one  such  royal  sufferer,  and  have 
always  felt  at  the  sight,  "  Oh,  could  I  he  like  this  one — it 
is  better  than  to  be  worldly  fortunate  ! " 

But  I  must  here  remark  a  difference.  There  is  a  misfor- 
tune in  which  we  see  a  higher  hand,  an  inevitable  fate  ;  it  is 
like  a  thunder-stroke  out  of  the  clouds.  But  there  are  suf- 
ferings of  another  kind,  of  which  the  torture  resembles  a 
perpetual  needle-pricking.  These  proceed  from  the  hand  of 
man  ;  these  arise  in  families,  where  married  people,  parents, 
children,  only  live  one  with  another  to  make  home  a  hell : 
there  are  the  plagued  and  the  plaguers  ;  it  were  difficult  to 
say  which  are  most  worthy  of  pity — the  unhappy  ones  ! 
The  first  kind  of  misfortune  is  most  easy  to  endure.  It  is 
much,  much  easier  to  suffer  -under  the  hand  of  God,  than 
under  that  of  man.  Lightning  from  above  gives  death,  or 
light  and  exhilaration  ;  the  prick  from  the  hand  of  man 
wastes  away  like  a  slow  cancer  ;  it  embitters  the  heart — bit- 
terness is  the  simoom  of  life  ;  where  it  blows,  there  exists  a 
desert.  But  even  here,  is  there  a  means  of  deliverance. 
There  is  an  angel-patience  which  blunts  the  wounding  point, 
which  sanctifies  the  sufferer  under  his  pang,  and  at  length 
improves  others  by  this  means.  There  is  a  Socratic  cou- 
rage which  converts  all  Xantippean  shower-baths  into  re- 
freshing rain  ;  there  is  a  hero-mood  that  breaks  the  chains 
which  it  finds  too  heavy  to  be  borne.  Many  a  tormented 
one  proves  himself,  but  he  proves  himself  before  a  higher 
eye  ;  he  may,  if  he  will,  prevent  his  heart  becoming  embit- 
tered, for  that  is  the  worst  that  can  happen  to  him. 


HEMEMBEREST    THOU    ME. 


141 


BY     \VM.     H.     CARPENTER. 

I  LOVED  thee  when  thou  wert  a  fairy  thing 

Of  less  than  sixteen  summers ;  and  thy  form 

Was  as  a  flower  of  beauty's  fashioning, 

Bright  in  the  sunshine,  drooping  in  the  storm. 

Thy  laughing  eyes  were  of  that  deep  clear  blue, 

In  which  the  soul  was  seated  like  a  star, 

Throned  in  its  kindred  heaven. — I  would  strew 

Gladness  around  thee,  fair  one !  though  afar 

Our  streams  have  parted,  ne'er  to  mingle  more. 

Thou  hast  encircling  thee  in  thy  bright  home 

The  fond  ones  of  thy  girlhood, — and  thy  door 

Still  looks  on  scenes  where  once  we  loved  to  roam ; 

(I  bless  thee,  dearest !)  and  thy  golden  tress 

Lies  even  now  before  me,  and  is  wet 

With  tears  that  come  from  memory's  fount  and  press 

Its  spirit  depths  full  sadly. — Where  we  met, 

Is  pictured  to  the  sense ;  the  bower,  the  beechen  tree, 

On  which  our  names  were  graved  ;  the  little  stream, 

That  gliding  onward  mingled  with  the  sea ; 

The  sun  just  setting,  while  his  crimson  beam. 

Falls  slantingly  upon  the  tiny  sail 

That  gems  the  still  blue  waters.     Thou  art  there, 

And  I  am  by  thee,  and  thy  lashes  veil 

The  tears  that  glisten  through  them  ;  while  a  prayer 

Comes  whispered  from  thy  lips — bless  thee  !  bless  thee  \ 

That  prayer  was  breathed  for  me  and — this  is  but 

A  dream  of  what  hath  been. 


142  VISIT    TO    FATHER    MATHEW. 


BY     COL.     WM.     SHERBURNE. 

ON  leaving  the  beautiful  and  chaste  City  of  Dublin,  which 
may  be  ranked  second  only  to  the  City  of  Edinburgh  for  its 
magnificent  mansions,  I  was  presented  with  letters  to  the 
Very  Reverend-  Theobald  Mathew  at  Cork  ;  to  the  Earl 
Montagle,  late  Chancellor  of  the  British  Exchequer  and 
Member  of  the  House  of  Lords,  residing  near  Cork ;  to  the 
Lord  High  Sheriff  of  the  County  of  Cork  ;  and  numerous 
others  of  equal  rank  and  standing  in  Ireland,  all  of  which 
placed  me  in  a  position,  while  on  my  rambles  over  an 
island  so  enchanting  in  prospect,  clime  and  soil,  to  the  tra- 
veller, made  me  forget  the  famishing  thousands,  or  my 
danger  as  a  foreigner  travelling  amid  subjects  armed  at 
every  point  and  ripe  for  rebellion,  incendiarism,  and  blood- 
shed. Yet,  after  a  pleasant  jaunt,  by  railway  and  coach,  I 
arrived  in  safety  at  the  City  of  Cork,  and  took  my  quarters 
at  Cotton's  Imperial  Hotel.  The  following  morning  I  called 
to  deliver  my  letters  of  introduction  and  pay  my  respects  to 
Father  Mathew,  (so  termed  in  Ireland,)  whose  humble 
abode  I  found  a  few  squares  from  the  hotel  over  the  Lee  in  a 
narrow,  obscure  street.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a  large 
number  of  the  poor,  waiting  to  have  an  opportunity  to  see 
the  great  Apostle  of  Temperance  and  obtain  the  usual  morn- 


VISIT    TO    FATHER    MATHEW.  143 


ing  blessing,  with  something  also  to  keep  them  from  star- 
vation. Making  my  way  through  the  motley  crowd,  amid  a 
hundred  cries  of  "  a  penny,  your  honor,  in  the  name  of 
God  !"  I  gave  the  usual  summons,  and  was  invited  into  the 
office  of  the  good  'Father's  private  secretary,  on  the  right  of 
a  narrow  passage,  the  floor  of  which  was  covered  with  straw, 
thrown  carelessly  down,  for  the  purpose,  as  I  was  afterwards 
informed,  of  letting  the  poor  mendicants  wipe  their  feet  of 
the  mud  brought  in  from  the  street  before  entering  the  office. 
The  secretary,  on  learning  my  object,  my  letters  and  coun- 
try, expressed  much  regret  that  Father  Mathew  was  absent 
from  town  on  a  mission  of  mercy ;  but  said  that  he  would 
return  that  evening,  and  hoped  I  would  leave  my  letter  and 
card,  as  he  would  feel  rejoiced  to  see  and  take  by  the  hand  a 
citizen  from  a  country  that  had  saved  millions  from  starva- 
tion by  its  most  generous  sympathy  in  the  great  time  of 
need. 

Soon  after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  while  reading  the 
morning  paper  near  the  front  window  in  the  parlor,  a  cab 
drove  rapidly  up  the  street  and  reined  up  at  the  Imperial ; 
and  while  gazing  out  to  see  a  large  number  of  the  poor  Irish 
in  front  and  around  the  cab,  I  was  aroused  at  the  entrance 
and  announcement  of  mine  host  of  the  name  of  Father 
Mathew,  who,  with  all  the  courtly  grace  of  a  finished  gentle- 
man, bade  me  welcome  to  Ireland,  and  regretting  that  his 
absence  on  the  day  previous  had  deprived  him  of  the  plea- 
sure of  welcoming  me  at  his  own  domicil.  The  deep-felt 
gratitude,  towards  the  American  citizens,  he  expatiated  upon 
until  tears  filled  his  eyes  ;  and  when  describing  the  horrors  of 
the  famine  and  what  he  had  seen  and  passed  through  during 


144  VISIT    TO    FATHER    MATHEW. 

that  awful  visitation  of  Providence,  it  seemed  completely  to 
unman  the  good  Father,  who  rose,  and  with  measured  steps 
walked  the  room  for  a  while  in  silence,  apparently  to  recover 
his  agitated  feelings  and  change  the  too-painful  subject.  On 
the  taking  leave,  he  said,  with  his  usual  bland  smile,  while 
holding  my  hand,  that  he  should  expect  me  to  dine  with  him 
on  the  next  day  with  a  few  select  friends,  to  whom  he  should 
be  pleased  to  introduce  me.  On  waiting  on  the  good  Father 
to  his  cab  we  found,  still  collected,  a  large  number  of  the 
poor,  who,  on  his  approach,  knelt  on  the  pavement  to  ask  a 
blessing  as  he  passed  out  to  enter  his  carriage.  Many  fol- 
lowed the  carriage  some  distance  up  the  street. 

I  had  the  impression,  like  thousands  of  others,  that  Father 
Mathew  was  a  small  man,  of  advanced  age,  and  my  aston- 
ishment was  great  on  seeing  a  gentleman  in  the  prime  of  life, 
of  true  Chesterfieldian  grace  in  every  movement,  and  with 
handsome  form  and  features.  Father  Mathew  may  be 
termed  one  of  nature's  true  noblemen.  His  dress  was  a  suit 
of  black  with  small-clothes  and  boots  of  high  polish  up  to 
the  knee,  when  in  the  street  or  making  short  visits ;  in 
private,  at  home,  he  wears  a  well-made  neat  shoe,  after  the 
style  of  the  old  English  gentleman. 

At  the  humble  residence  of  the  Apostle  of  temperance,  on 
the  next  day,  I  was  introduced  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  several 
of  the  corporation  and  two  or  three  priests.  We  dined  in 
the  same  room  in  which  we  all  met,  and  when  dinner  was 
announced,  Father  Mathew  did  me  the  honor  of  placing  me 
at  his  right  hand  with  the  Lord  Mayor  on  his  left.  We  had 
an  excellent  dinner,  with  pure  water ;  tea  and  coffee  followed 
while  the  dessert  was  on  the  table,  a  part  of  which  had  been 


REMEMBRANCE. 


sent  from  the  United  States  by  a  lady  as  a  present  to  Father 
Mathew.  All  the  time  we  were  at  the  table,  a  constant 
crowd  of  the  poor  destitute  Irish  were  in  front  of  the  house, 
looking  up  to  the  windows,  most  anxiously  wishing  for  some 
of  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  good  Father's  table.  While 
sipping  our  coffee,  Father  Mathew  rose  and  whispered  me  to 
excuse  him  for  a  few  minutes.  His  object  was,  to  order  his 
servant-man  to  divide  all  that  was  left  of  the  dinner  among 
those  who  crowded  the  door  in  front,  as  far  as  it  would  go, 
and  then  to  request  them  to  return  to  their  homes  and  he 
would  see  them  another  time  ;  all  of  which  was  fulfilled,  and 
all  left  on  their  way  rejoicing,  blessing  the  name  of  Father 
Mathew. 


'Tis  something,  if  in  absence  we  can  trace 
The  footsteps  of  the  past :  it  sooths  the  heart 
To  breathe  the  air  scented  in  other  years 
By  lips  beloved,  to  wander  through  the  groves 
Where  once  we  were  not  lonely ;  where  the  rose 
Reminds  us  of  the  hair  we  used  to  wreathe 
With  its  fresh  buds — where  every  hill  and  vale, 
And  wood  and  fountain,  speak  of  time  gone  by, 
And  Hope  springs  up  in  joy  from  Memory's  ashes. 


146  POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


siA¥sri§ 


THE  songs  of  Mr.  Haynes  Bayly  have  been  the  most  po- 
pular of  our  times  next  to  those  of  Moore.  They  are  thinga 
generally  slight  in  substance,  yet  invariably  elegant  and 
pleasing.  Some  are  airy  and  cheerful  beyond  even  Mr. 
Moore's  best  ditties  of  the  same  kind  ;  others  express,  in  a 
manner  which  the  public  felt  to  be  original,  the  pathos  aris- 
ing from  some  of  the  less  happy  relations  Avhich  rest  beneath 
the  smiling  exterior  of  refined  society.  From  a  memoir  pre- 
fixed to  an  edition  of  Mr.  Haynes  Bayly's  lyrical  works, 
published  by  his  widow,  we  learn  that  he  was  connected  by 
birth  with  the  aristocracy  of  England,  and  the  sole  heir  of  a 
gentleman  of  property  near  Bath,  who  had  pursued  the 
business  of  solicitor  in  that  city.  By  a  fate  rare  with  poets, 
he  was  nurtured  in  tlie  lap  of  luxury  ;  but  it  will  be  found 
that  misfortune  claimed  her  own  at  last,  and  that  his  latter 
years  were  spent  under  the  pressure  of  difficulties  which  seem 
next  to  inseparable  from  literary  avocations.  He  was  an  in- 
attentive school-  boy,  preferring,  even  at  seven  years  of  age, 
the  business  of  dramatizing  stories  from  his  picture-books  to 
that  of  mastering  his  tasks.  He  composed  verses  under  the 
age  at  which  Pope  and  Spenser  attempted  them.  Educated  at 
Winchester  school,  he  was  devoted  by  his  father  to  the  legal 
profession  ;  but  it  was  found  impossible  to  confine  him  to 


POETKY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY.  147 

such  duties,  and  after  a  severe  struggle  with  the  paternal 
wishes,  he  was  allowed  to  study  for  the  church.  This  was  a 
voluntary-assumed  pursuit,  but  it  did  not  prove  the  less 
uncongenial  when  tried ;  and,  finally,  it  seems  to  have  been 
found  by  all  parties  that  it  was  vain  to  prevent  the  subject 
of  our  memoir  from  giving  himself  entirely  to  that  for  which 
his  faculties  seemed  primarily  fitted — elegant  literature. 

While  he  was  studying  at  Oxford,  he  formed  a  fond 
attachment  to  a  fellow-student  who  fell  into  consumption  and 
died.  At  an  early  age  of  the  youth's  illness,  his  sister,  who 
resided  at  Bath,  ventured  on  the  somewhat  extraordinary 
step  of  corresponding  with  Mr.  Bayly,  to  ascertain  her 
brother's  real  state  ;  for  the  accounts  which  had  hitherto 
reached  the  family  were  only  calculated  to  excite  alarm 
without  giving  satisfactory  information.  This  increased  the 
interest  which  our  poet  felt  in  his  friend's  condition,  and  he 
soon  gave  himself  entirely  up  to  the  duty  of  watching  beside 
his  sick-bed.  He  used  to  read  to  him  for  hours  during  the 
intervals  of  the  slow  fever  which  was  consuming  his  life.  He 
soothed  him  in  the  hour  of  pain  and  suffering,  and  at  the  last 
closed  his  eyes  in  peace.  His  whole  conduct,  and  a  monody 
in  which  he  expressed  his  feelings  on  this  occasion,  make 
manifest  the  extreme  kindness  of  nature  which  distinguished 
Mr.  Bayly.  Afterwards,  his  acquaintance  with  the  young 
lady  was  renewed  at  Bath,  whither  he  returned  immediately 
after  the  decease  of  her  brother.  He  was  overwhelmed  with 
thanks  for  his  attentions  to  the  lost  one  by  the  bereft  family, 
and  invited  constantly  by  the  afflicted  parents  to  fill  the 
vacant  seat  at  their  table ;  in  short,  he  soon  became  as  one 
of  themselves.  The  sorrowing  sister  poured  forth  her  grief- 


148  POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


the  poet  sympathized,  and  "  pity  is  akin  to  love."  It  was 
certainly  not  surprising  that  an  attachment  begun  under 
such  circumstances  should  have  strengthened  daily ;  and 
when  the  lover  declared  his  sentiments,  it  of  course  became 
necessary  to  inquire  into  the  probability  of  his  being  able  to 
raise  a  sufficient  income  to  allow  of  their  marrying  with 
prudence.  Mr.  Haynes  Bayly  was  entirely  dependent  on 
his  father,  who  was  not  then  disposed  to  come  forward  for 
such  a  purpose.  The  young  lady  had  nothing  of  her  own, 
and  her  father,  Colonel ,  would  not  make  any  settle- 
ment on  her.  How  were  matters  to  be  arranged  ?  They 
were  both  too  wise  to  think  of  living  upon  love,  and,  after 
mutual  tears  and  sighs,  they  parted — never  to  meet  again. 
The  lady,  though  grieved,  was  not  broken-hearted,  and  soon 
became  the  wife  of  another.  Mr.  Bayly  fell  into  deep 
melancholy,  to  alleviate  which  he  was  induced  to  make  a 
journey  to  Scotland.  It  was  at  this  time,  and  with  reference 
to  his  own  feelings,  that  he  wrote  his  well-known  song,  "  Oh, 
no  !  we  never  mention  her ;"  also  one  less  known,  but  per- 
haps  more  remarkable  for  the  generosity  of  its  sentiments : — 

I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more,  though  I  am  still  thy  friend  ; 
I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more,  since  dearer  ties  must  end ; 
With  worldly  smiles  and  worldly  words,  I  could  not  pass  thee  by, 
Nor  turn  from  thee  unfeelingly  with  cold  averted  eye. 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  thee  'midst  the  thoughtless  and  the  gay  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  view  thee,  decked  in  fashion's  bright  array  j 
And  less  could  I  endure  to  meet  thee  pensive  and  alone, 
When  through  the  trees  the  evening  breeze  breathes  forth  its  cheerless 
moan. 


POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY.  149 

For  I  have  met  thee  'midst  the  gay,  and  thought  of  none  but  thee ; 
And  I  h^ve  seen  the  bright  array,  when  it  was  worn  for  me ; 
And  often  near  the  sunny  waves  I've  wandered  by  thy  side, 
With  joy  that  passed  away  as  fast  as  sunshine  from  the  tide. 

But  cheerless  is  the  summer !  there  is  nothing  happy  now; 
The  daisy  withers  on  the  lawn,  the  blossom  on  the  bough : 
The  boundless  sea  looks  chillingly,  like  winter's  waste  of  snow, 
And  it  hath  lost  the  soothing  sound  with  which  it  used  to  flow. 

I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more,  yet  think  not  I've  been  taught, 
By  smiling  foes,  to  injure  thee  by  one  unworthy  thought. 
No — blest  with  some  beloved  one,  from  care  and  sorrow  free, 
May  thy  lot  in  life  be  happy,  undisturbed  by  thoughts  of  me. 

A  year  spent  in  Scotland,  and  a  subsequent  gayer  resi- 
dence in  Dublin,  re-established  the  poet's  spirits,  and  he 
now  began  to  publish  his  songs.  Returning,  in  1824,  to  his 
father's  house  of  Mount  Beacon,  near  Bath — being  now 
twenty-seven  years  of  age — he  formed  a  new  attachment, 
equally  peculiar  in  its  circumstances,  but  more  fortunate  in 
the  event.  He  was  introduced  by  a  friend  at  an  evening 
party  given  by  Mrs.  Hayes,  whose  soirees  at  Bath  were  fre- 
quented by  the  talented,  the  young  and  the  gay.  Mrs. 
Hayes  had  an  only  daughter,  who,  having  heard  with  delight 
the  ballad  of  "  Isabel,"  expressed  the  greatest  anxiety  to 
see  its  author  ;  the  friend  just  alluded  to  being  one  of  Miss 
Hayes's  suitors,  was  requested  by  her  mother  to  convey  an 
invitation  for  her  next  party  to  the  beau  ideal  of  her  daugh- 
ter's fancy.  The  appointed  evening  arrived — -,the  poet  saw, 
and  was  fascinated  with  Miss  Hayes ;  and,  on  conversing 
with  Mrs.  Hayes,  discovered  that  she  and  his  own  mother 
had  been  friends  and  school-fellows  in  their  young  days. 


150  POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


This  circumstance  laid  the  foundation  of  an  intimacy  which 
ceased  only  with  his  life.  His  friend  was  then  little  aware 
that  he  was  introducing  to  her,  whose  hand  he  himself  was 
seeking,  her  future  husband ;  for  so  it  proved. 

He  came,  he  saw,  but  did  not  conquer  at  once ;  for  the 
young  lady,  though  she  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  Mr. 
Haynes  Bayly  was  very  charming  and  agreeable,  was  never- 
theless disappointed  at  not  finding  him  exactly  what  her 
youthful  imagination  had  portrayed.  Seeing,  therefore,  that 
he  was  "  epris,"  without  her  having  any  intention  of  capti- 
vating him,  she  persuaded  her  mother  to  shorten  their  stay 
at  Bath,  and  take  her  to  Paris.  Mrs.  Hayes  reluctantly 
complied,  as  she  much  wished  her  daughter  to  encourage 
Mr.  Haynes  Bayly's  suit ;  but  when  she  found  her  daughter's 
mind  was  set  on  going  abroad  she  wisely  allowed  her  to  do 
so  ;  for  Miss  Hayes,  when  absent  from  the  poet,  missed  his 
witty  and  delightful  conversation  and  his  attentions,  which 
were  entirely  devoted  to  her,  so  much,  that  her  mother's 
wish  was  more  forwarded  by  absence  than  it  would  have  been 
had  she  remained  at  Bath.  Mr.  Haynes  Bayly  was,  how- 
ever, not  discouraged  by  her  intended  departure — as  appears 
from  the  poem  addressed  to  her,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
specimen  : — 

Oh !  think  not,  Helena,  of  leaving  us  yet ; 

Though  many  fair  damsels  inhabit  our  isle, 
Alas  !  there  are  none  who  can  make  us  forget 

The  grace  of  thy  form,  and  the  charm  of  thy  smile. 

The  toys  of  the  French,  if  they  hither  are  sent, 

Are  endeared  by  the  payment  of  custom-house  duties. 


POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY.  151 


Ah  !  why  do  not  duty  and  custom  prevent 

The  rash  exportation  of  pure  British  beauties  ? 

Say,  is  there  not  one  ('midst  the  many  who  sighed 
To  solicit  your  favor) — one  favorite  beau  ? 

And  have  you  to  all,  who  popped  questions,  replied, 
With  that  chilling,  unkind  monosyllable — NO  ? 

Your  mansion  with  exquisite  swains  has  been  thronged, 
With  smiles  they  approach  you,  in  tears  they  depart ; 

Indeed,  it  is  said  that  a  man  who  belonged 
To  the  Tenth,  sighed  in  vain  for  a  tithe  of  your  heart. 

And  are  you  still  happy  7     Could  no  one  be  found 
Whose  vows  full  of  feeling  could  teach  you  to  feel  1 

A  girl  so  expert  at  inflicting  a  wound, 

Should  surely  be  now  and  then  willing  to  heal. 

Then  leave  us  not ;  shall  a  foreigner  own 
The  form  we  have  worshipped  as  if  'twere  divine  ? 

No,  no,  thou  art  worthy  a  Briton  alone, 

And  where  is  the  Briton  who  would  not  be  thine  1 


The  pair  were  made  happy  by  wedlock  at  Cheltenham,  in 
1826.  The  heir  of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  and  united  to  an 
elegant  woman  who  had  also  considerable  expectations,  there 
seemed  every  reason  to  augur  for  Haynes  Bayly  a  long 
course  of  happiness.  They  spent  part  of  the  honeymoon  at 
Lord  Ashtown's  villa  at  Chessel,  on  the  Southampton  river ; 
and  here  occurred  a  little  incident  which  gave  rise  to  the 
most  popular  of  the  poet's  songs :  a  large  party  was  stay 


152  POETRY    OF    MR.    "1AYNES    BAYLY. 

ing  at  Lord  Ashtown's,  and  the  day  before  it  broke  up,  the 
ladies,  on  leaving  the  dining-table,  mentioned  their  intention 
of  taking  a  stroll  through  his  beautiful  grounds,  and  the 
gentlemen  promised  to  follow  them  in  ten  minutes.  Lured 
by  Bacchus,  they  forgot  their  promise  to  the  Graces,  and 
Mr.  Haynes  Bayly  was  the  only  one  who  thought  fit  to 
move  ;  and  he  in  about  half  an  hour  wandered  forth  in 
search  of  the  ladies.  They  beheld  him  at  a  distance,  but 
pretending  annoyance  at  his  not  joining  them  sooner,  they 
fled  away  in  an  opposite  direction.  The  poet,  wishing  to 
carry  on  the  joke,  did  not  seek  to  overtake  them  ;  they  ob- 
served this,  and  lingered,  hoping  to  attract  his  attention. 
He  saw  this  manoeuvre  and  determined  to  turn  the  tables 
upon  them  ;  he  waved  his  hand  carelessly  and  pursued 
his  ramble  alone  ;  then  falling  into  a  revery,  he  entered  a 
beautiful  summer-house,  known  now  by  the  name  of  But- 
terfly Bower,  overlooking  the  water,  and  there  seated  himself. 
Here,  inspired  by  a  butterfly  which  had  just  flitted  before 
him,  he  wrote  the  ballad,  "  I'd  be  a  butterfly."  He  then 
returned  to  the  house,  and  found  the  ladies  assembled  round 
the  tea-table,  when  they  smilingly  told  him  they  had  enjoyed 
their  walk  in  the  shrubberies  excessively,  and  that  they 
needed  no  escort.  He  was  now  determined  to  go  beyond 
them  in  praise  of  his  solitary  evening  walk,  and  said  that  he 
had  never  enjoyed  himself  so  much  in  his  life  ;  that  he  had 
met  a  butterfly,  with  whom  he  had  wandered  in  the  regions 
of  fancy,  which  afforded  him  much  more  pleasure  than  he 
would  have  found  in  chasing  them  ;  and  that  he  had  put  hia 
thoughts  in  verse.  The  ladies  immediately  gave  up  ail  fur- 
ther contention  with  the  wit,  upon  his  promising  to 


POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY.  153 

them  the  lines  he  had  just  written.     He  then  produced  hie 
tablets,  and  read  the  well-known  ballad, 

I'd  be  a  butterfly,  born  in  a  bower, 

to  the  great  delight  of  his  fair  auditors. 

It  should  perhaps  be  here  remarked,  that  the  poet  foretold 
his  own  doom  in  this  ballad  ;  for  it  will  be  seen  by  his  early 
death,  that  his  nerves  were  too  finely  strung  to  bear  the  un- 
foreseen storms  of  severe  disappointment  which  gathered 
round  him  in  after  years.  On  the  same  evening  he  com- 
posed the  air,  to  which  Mrs.  Haynes  Bayly  put  the  accom- 
paniments and  symphonies,  and  it  was  sung  the  following 
evening  to  a  very  large  party  assembled  at  Lord  Ashtown's, 
who  encored  it  again  and  again. 

For  several  years  Mr.  Bayly  lived  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
utmost  domestic  happiness.  Possessed  of  fortune,  brilliant 
talents,  and  manners  universally  pleasing,  no  lot  could  appar- 
ently have  been  better  cast.  Although  not  called  to  literary 
exertion  by  necessity,  he  wrote  and  published  many  beautiful 
lyrics,  which  generally  attained  great  popularity  :  he  com- 
posed a  novel,  The  Jlyhners,  which  met  with  success — and 
began  to  write  for  the  stage.  At  length,  in  1831,  came  the 
blight  of  misfortune.  A  bad  speculation  of  his  father's  and 
his  own  in  coal  mines,  and  the  faithlessness  of  the  agent 
upon  his  wife's  property  in  Ireland,  reduced  him  to  compa- 
rative poverty.  The  fine  nervous  system  of  the  amiable 
poet  was  ill  calculated  to  bear  up  against  such  calamities  : 
for  a  time,  his  spirits  were  so  sunk,  that  he  was  totally  una- 
ble to  command  his  mind  to  literary  composition.  A  short 
residence  abroad  served  to  restore  him  in  some  degree,  and 


154  POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


he  resumed  the  pen  with  feelings  which  he  has  embodied  IE 
an  Address  to  the  Spirit  of  Song  : — 

I  welcome  thee  back  as  the  dove  to  the  ark  : 

The  world  was  a  desert,  the  future  all  dark  ; 

But  I  know  that  the  worst  of  the  storm  must  be  past, 

Thou  art  come  with  the  green  leaf  of  comfort  at  last. 

Around  me  thy  radiant  imaginings  throng, 

I  welcome  thee  back  again,  Spirit  of  Song ! 

I  welcome  thee  back,  and  again  I  look  forth 
With  my  wonted  delight  on  the  blessings  of  earth  ; 
Again  I  can  smile  with  the  gay  and  the  young ; 
The  lamp  is  relighted,  the  harp  is  restrung. 
Despair  haunts  the  silent  endurance  of  wrong ; 
I  welcome  thee  back  again,  Spirit  of  Song! 

Some  deeper  feelings  which  still  abode  with  him  are  ex- 
pressed in  a  birth-day  ode,  which  he  soon  after,  in  pursuance 
of  a  custom,  addressed  to  his  wife  : — 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 

More  dark  that  fate  would  prove  : 
My  heart  were  truly  desolate, 

Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffered  for  my  sake, 

Whilst  this  relief  I  found, 
Like  fearless  !ips  that  strive  to  take 

The  poison  from  a  wound  ! 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret, 
To  think  more  happy  thou  hadft  been, 

If  we  had  never  met. 


POETRY    OF    MR.    HAYNES    BAYLY.  16J 

And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ? 

Ah  no,  that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 

Than  labored  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 

Of  sorrow  summons  forth  ; 
Though  known  in  days  of  past  delight 

We  know  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some,  who  have  professed 

So  much  in  friendship's  name  ; 
Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 

They  may  evade  her  claim. 

But  ah  !  from  them  to  thee  I  turn  ; 

They'd  make  me  loathe  mankind ; 
Far  better  lessons  I  may  learn 

From  thy  more  holy  mind. 

The  love  that  gives  a  charm  to  home, 

I  feel  they  cannot  take  : 
We'll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come, 

For  one  another's  sake. 

From  this  time  Mr.  Bayly's  life  was  in  a  great  measure 
that  of  a  man  writing  for  subsistence.  In  this  new  character 
he  exhibited  marvellous  industry,  insomuch  that,  in  a  few 
years,  his  contributions  of  pieces  to  the  stage  had  amounted 
to  no  less  than  thirty-six,  while  his  songs  ultimately  came  to 
be  numbered  in  hundreds.  But  severe  literary  labor,  united 
to  corroding  anxieties,  proved  too  much  for  his  delicate 
frame,  and  he  sunk,  in  1839,  under  confirmed  jaundice.  He 
lies  buried  at  Cheltenham,  under  a  stone  which  his  friend 
Theodore  Hook  has  thus  inscribed : — "  He  was  a  kind 


156          POETRY  OF  MR.  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

parent,  an  affectionate  husband,  a  popular  author,  and  an 
accomplished  gentleman."  Most  sad  it  is  to  reflect  how  he 
thus  came  to  realize  his  own  playfully-expressed  wish  :- 

What,  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day  ! 
Surely  'tis  better  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  fail  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay — 
I'd  be  a  butterfly ;  living,  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away ! 

The  poems  and  songs  of  Mr.  Haynes  Bayly  will  not  be 
entitled  to  a  high  place  in  the  literature  of  our  age  ;  a  certain 
air  of  insubstantiality  attaches  to  them  all ;  the  pathos 
rarely  goes  down  to  the  springs  of  the  human  feelings,  and 
the  humor  scarcely  exceeds  the  playfulness  which  marks 
elegant  society  in  its  daily  appearances.  Yet,  considering 
him  as  what  he  really  was,  the  poet  of  modern  fashionable 
life,  he  must  be  allowed  the  merit  of  having  reflected  this 
successfully,  both  its  gravities  and  its  levities.  He  must  be 
allowed,  moreover,  to  have  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree 
the  comparatively  rare  power  of  producing  verses  which 
readily  danced  along  in  connection  with  music.  Withal,  an 
amiable  and  virtuous  nature  shines  throughout  all  his  varied 
compositions. 


THE    THREE    ORPHANS. 


157 


£i      &  xL&a  a     0  J&  «!.*  ,tt  A 

BY    MISS    EMMA    HEMPLE. 

DREAMING  of  the  shadowy  past 
And  the  future,  dim  and  vast, 
In  the  sun-set  hour  so  fair, 
Mused  the  orphan  sister  there. 
On  her  brother's  laughing  brow 
Lingered  not  a  shadow  now  ; 
And  the  baby,  clasped  from  harm, 
Fondly,  on  her  weary  arm, 
Only  saw  a  world  of  light, 
Wrapped  in  beauty  soft  and  bright. 

They  were  happy — dreaming  not 
Of  their  thorny  checkered  lot ; 
All  forgetful  of  the  days 
When  a  mother  watched  their  plays, 
And  their  father  smiled  to  hear 
Happy  voices  greet  his  ear  ; 
When  the  tempter  had  not  come 
DarKening  their  peaceful  home, 
And  the  ruin  was  unwrought 
Which  the  poison  cup  had  brought 

Then  in  memory  floated  by 
That  dear  mother's  sunken  eye  ; 
Household  comforts,  one  by  one, 
Parted  with,  till  all  was  gone, 
And  their  mother  drooped  and  died, 
And  their  world  grew  drear  and  wide, 


1 ,33  FAREWELL. 


And  no  loving,  sheltering  arms, 
Folded  them  from  outward  harms ; 
And  there  came  no  warm  caress, 
The  poor  orphaned  ones  to  bless. 


In  the  dreaming  orphan's  heart 
All  these  shadows  bore  a  part ; 
Yet  a  hope  was  blent  with  all — 
God,  who  "  sees  the  Sparrow's  fall," 
Will  not  let  those  children  know 
All  the  bitterness  of  wo. 
And  her  heart,  so  warm  and  true, 
Will  be  mother,  sister,  too ; 
Hoping  on  and  hoping  still, 
Through  all  sorrow,  care  and  ill. 


IT  hath  a  sad,  sweet  sound — "  Farewell." 

When  loved  lips  murmur  it ; 
For  'tis  the  breaking  of  a  spell 

We  fain  would  bind  us  yet. 
Then  fades  Love's  rapturous  mystery, 

And  slowly  move  the  loitering  Hours ; 
For  bleak  and  bare  Reality 

Usurps  the  realm  of  flowers. 


JOHN    BICKKK.  159 


T  A  IT  TiT    *B  ?  f*  T*  T?  T* 
&  V  XL  A     &  £  u  &  &  A, 

THE    DRY    DOMINIE    OF    KILWOODT. 

"  DE'IL  break  your  leg  if  ye  get  out  over  this  door,  the 
night,  to  any  of  your  drunken  companions.  Do  ye  think  I 
am  to  be  getting  out  of  my  warm  bed,  to  be  letting  you  in  at 
a'  the  hours  of  the  night,  I  wish  the  first  drop  of  whiskey  ye 
tak,  wad  gang  like  boiling  lead  down  your  throat." 

Such  were  the  mild  remonstrance  and  exclamation  of  scold- 
ing Tibby  to  her  husband,  John  Bicker,  the  dry  schoolmaster 
of  Kilwoody.  John  answered  with  great  mildness  : 

"  Ah,  Tibby,  the  whiskey's  nae  so  strong  now-a-days, 
woman  ;  its  mair  like  water  than  ony thing  else.  Ye  ken  this 
morning,  Davy  and  I  drank  a  whole  mutchkin  afore  breakfast 
and  were  ne'er  a  bit  the  waur  of  it." 

"  The  mair's  the  pity,"  retorted  Tibby,  "  the  de'il's  ay  good 
to  his  ain,  but  out  of  this  house  ye  shall  not  stir  till  morning !" 

"  Ony  ower  the  way  to  Saunders  Glasse's,"  returned  John ; 
u  I  gave  Davy  and  Rob  my  hand,  that  I  would  come,  and  I'll 
nae  stay  very  long  :  indeed  I  maun  gang,  Tibby." 

"Ye'll  gang  ower  my  back,  then,"  exclaimed  Tibby, 
placing  herself  between  John  and  the  door,  "  and  ye'll  get  the 
mark  of  my  ten  nails  as  deep  as  I  can  houk  in  yer  face.  I'm 
ower  easy  and  good  natured  with  ye,  ye  vagabond,  and  that's 
the  way  ye  leave  me  to  gang  after  your  drunken  sand  beds, 
that  would  soak  in  as  muckle  whiskey  as  would  fill  our  goose 


160  JOHN    BICKER. 


dub ;  ne'er-do-weels,  that  have  their  stomachs  paved  wi'  whin 
stanes." 

John  stood  and  wriggled  his  shoulder,  and  scratched  his 
head,  at  this  announcement  of  a  determined  blockade*.  He 
tried  to  appease  the  enemy,  but  in  vain.  He  knew  his  own 
strength,  but  was  unwilling  to  exert  it.  A  vigorous  attack 
would  have  in  a  moment,  procured  him  his  liberty ;  but  this, 
John  was  afraid  would  be  attended  with  too  much  clamor; 
and  perhaps  be  productive  of  consequences  he  might  after- 
wards be  sorry  for.  He,  therefore,  determined  to  call  off  the 
attention  of  his  infuriated  spouse  by  a  seeming  acquiescence, 
and  so  take  advantage  of  some  lucky  opportunity  of  affecting 
his  escape.  But  this  system  of  tactics  had  been  tried  too 
often  before,  and  Tibby  seemed  determined  it  should  not  suc- 
ceed this  time,  as  she  cautiously  barred  the  door  of  their 
little  cottage,  and  placed  herself  so  as  to  have  full  view  and 
command  of  that  weak  part  of  the  garrison.  John  was  turn- 
ing, disconsolate,  to  the  fire-place  when  his  feelings  were 
roused  to  the  full  pitch  of  resolution  by  the  voice  of  a  friend 
on  the  outside. 

"  John,  we're  biding  for  you;  what  keeps  you,  mon?" 
It  was  the  voice  of  David  Gourlay,  and  the  sound  was 
irresistible.  John  flew  to  the  door,  which  he  unbolted  in  a 
twinkling,  burst  from  the  enraged  grasp  of  his  wife,  who  fell 
upon  the  threshold  in  the  momentary  struggle,  and,  ere  she 
could  recover  the  use  of  her  tongue  or  her  limbs,  the  school- 
master of  Kilwoody,  nimble  as  the  mountain-deer,  bounded 
over  the  hills  with  the  all-inspiring  emotions  of  newly- 
recovered  liberty,  and  anticipations  of  social  delight.  Tibby, 
seeing  all  her  plans  frustrated  and  her  determinations 


JOHN    BICKER. 


thwarted,  coK,d  only  give  vent  to  her  feelings  in  imprecations 
against  her  husband,  and  the  direst  wishes  as  to  his  fate. 

"  I  wish  he  may  never  enter  this  door  again  alive,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  May  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  stretching  him  on 
his  dead-dale.  I  hope  this  nicht  he'll  taste  his  last  drop  of 
whiskey  in  this  warld.  It  wad  gi'  me  the  greatest  pleasure, 
that  on  sabbath  next  he  was  laid  in  the  kirk-yard  of 
Kilwoody  ,  the  graceless  wretch  !"  here  she  sobbed  with  pas- 
sion. "  0  that  I  saw  him  in  his  dead  claes,  and  the  black 
bits  of  boord  on  ilka  side  o'  him." 

The  day  had  been  moist  and  warm,  but,  towards  evening 
the  clouds  began  to  discharge  their  contents  in  torrents  and 
one  of  those  sudden  transitions,  from  mildness  to  the  most 
piercing  cold  took  place,  which  are  so  often  wofully  felt  by 
the  valetudinarian  about  the  close  of  autumn.  John,  how- 
ever, (the  hero  of  our  tale,)  was  snug  and  comfortable  in  the 
warm  corner  of  Saunders  Glasse's  clean  sanded  parlor,  where 
every  fresh  potation  of  whiskey  toddy  seemed  to  inspire  him 
and  his  companions  with  warmer  and  more  affectionate  regard 
for  each  other.  The  solitary  song  gave  way  to  the  universal 
chorus.  The  storm  that  raged  without,  was  lost  in  the  joyous 
uproar  which  expressed  all  the  rapture  of  social  feeling  with- 
in. Long  before  midnight,  John  and  his  four  jovial  com- 
panions had  vowed  to  stand  by  each  other,  "  come  weal,  come 
wo." 

Scolding  wives,  squalling  children,  to-morrow's  labor,  to- 
morrow's care,  were  all  forgotten  and  the  hour  of  parting, 
like  the  hour  of  death,  if  it  crossed  the  imagination  for  a 
moment,  was  chased  away  by  the  loud  sounding  laugh,  the 
cordial  shake  of  the  hand,  and  the  fresh  flowing  bumpers. 


162  JOHN    BICKER. 


Scolding  Tibby,  as  the  only  gratification  of  revenge  which 
was  in  her  power,  bolted  carefully  the  door,  moved  all  the 
pieces  of  furniture  which  were  portable,  to  strengthen  the 
fortification  and  went  to  bed  at  an  early  hour,  vowing  that  her 
drunken  husband  should  find  no  shelter  within  his  house  from 
the  howling  storm  which  now  threatened,  every  moment,  to 
overthrow  their  little  dwelling.  Wakeful  to  enjoy  the  success 
of  her  manoeuvres,  Tibby  did  not  sleep ;  she  listened,  with  the 
utmost  anxiety,  betwixt  every  pause  of  the  hurricane,  and 
watched  for  her  husband's  return,  that,  if  possible,  she  might 
add  insult  and  reproaches  to  her  merciless  refusal  of  admit- 
tance. 

The  hour  of  one  had  tolled  its  solitary  note  from  the  parish 
kirk  of  Kilwoody,  when  the  attentive  ear  of  Tibby  distin- 
guished the  sound  of  some  one  fumbling  about  the  door  in 
search  of  the  latch.  It  was  the  next  moment  gently  lifted, 
but  the  door  still  remained  immoveable ;  a  knock  was  then 
heard,  but  still  Tibby  kept  silent.  "  Aperite  portum  !  open 
the  door,"  cried  the  Dominie,  in  a  tone,  which,  evidently, 
showed  the  state  of  inebriety  in  which  he  had  returned. 

The  vengeful  denial  stood  trembling  on  Tibby's  lip,  but  she 
repressed  it,  rightly  judging  the  silence  with  which  she  treated 
his  request  would  add  to  her  petitioner's  embarrassment. 
With  the  exultation  of  successful  revenge,  she  heard  his 
knocking,  his  threats,  and  his  entreaties,  and  so  callous  was 
she  to  his  sufferings,  that  in  a  short  time  wearied  with  the 
tumultuous  passion  to  which  her  mind  was  a  constant  prey, 
she  fell  fast  asleep. 

About  six  in  the  morning  she  was  awakened  by  the  sound 
of  several  voices  at  her  door,  and,  ere  she  could  half  dress 


JOHN    BICKER.  163 


herself  to  appear  with  decency,  she  distinguished,  amid  a  con- 
fusion of  tongues,  the  alarming  expressions  of: 

"  Ay,  ay,  he's  gone  at  last.  Wae's  me,  John,  it's  an 
awfu'  thing !  at  yer  ain  door  too,  stiff  and  cauld :  it's  an  awfu' 
thing !" 

Tibby  removed  the  barricading  and  opened  the  door.  She 
pierced  among  the  small  crowd,  which  was  now  fast  increasing, 
and  beheld  her  husband  lying  without  sense  or  motion  on  the 
ground. 

"  John !  John !"  she  exclaimed,  with  terror,  "  dinna  lay 
there,  mon ;  come  to  yer  ain  warm  bed,  I  didna  mean  to  hurt 
ye." 

"  Nae  bed  will  ever  warm  him,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  by- 
standers ;  "  a  dreadful  life  ye  led  him,  in  this  warld ;  and  I'm 
sure  he  canna  be  waur  used  in  the  neist." 

Tibby  stood  motionless,  whilst  two  or  three  of  the  stoutest 
young  fellows  in  the  crowd  carried  the  body  within  doors  and 
laid  it  on  the  bed. 

"  There  never  waur  sic  a  nicht  under  heaven,"  exclaimed 
one,  "  as  last  nicht ;  none  but  the  heart  of  a  monster  wad 
have  refused  shelter  to  a  dog  in  sic  a  storm." 

"  Oh !"  cried  another,  "  she'll  find  a  judgment  come  ower 
her  afore  she  dies ;  it's  to  be  hoped  honest  John's  now  in 
glory ;  but  as  for  you,  ye  limmer,  an  awfu'  end  will  be  seen 
of  you." 

Tibby  was  not  of  a  disposition  to  allow  herself  to  be 
baited,  thus,  with  impunity ;  and  put  to  her  shifts,  she  stoutly 
defended  herself. 

u  It  was  a'  owing  to  his  drunken,  graceless  ways,"  she  re- 
torted, "  I  told  him  how  it  wad  be,  and  I  did  a'  that  I  could 


164  JOHN    BICKER. 


to  keep  him  from  that  den  at  Saunders  Glasse's ;  but  it  was 
ordained  to  be  the  death  of  him." 

"  That's  a  mair  sensible  word,"  said  Willy  Clew,  tne 
weaver,  who  was  also  an  elder  of  the  kirk,  "  that's  a  mair 
sensible  word,  than  I  wad  have  expected  o'  ye ;  for  if  Provi- 
dence, for  its  ain  ends,  ordained  that  John  Bicker  was  to  die, 
no  a'  the  warm  firesides  between  this  and  Loch  Leven  wad 
hae  saved  him,  had  he  been  put  just  in  the  middle  o'  them." 

Every  body  assented  to  the  truth  of  this  sage  observation, 
and  Tibby,  by  the  lucky  hint,  obtained  a  respite  from  farther 
animadversion  on  her  conduct.  The  visiters,  one  by  one, 
dropped  off,  eager  to  enjoy  the  momentary  attention  they 
might  command  by  being  the  first  to  communicate  the  dread- 
ful event,  to  the  quidnuncs  of  the  parish  of  Kilwoody.  All 
the  old  women,  as  they  sipped  a  little  glass  of  comfortable 
aqua-vitae  raised  their  eyes  to  heaven  and  inveighed  most  bit- 
terly against  the  sin  of  drunkenness.  The  wives,  in  many  an 
energetic  lecture,  set  forcibly  before  their  husbands'  eyes  the 
dreadful  fate  of  the  dry  Dominie,  and  the  men  retorted  that 
it  "  could  not  be  all  the  whiskey  in  Saunders  Glasse's  change 
house  that  could  have  affected  the  well-seasoned  stomach  of 
Johnny  Bicker ;  but  that  he  owed  his  death,  poor  man,  to  that 
termagant  cat-o'-thunder,  his  wife,  who  had  left  him  exposed, 
all  night,  to  sic  dreadfu'  weather." 

There  are  some  consciences,  which  have  so  much  antipathy 
to  the  stings  of  self-reproach,  that,  let  their  actions  partake 
of  ever  so  much  turpitude,  the  most  innocent,  and  even  the 
most  praiseworthy  motive  is  assigned  to  them.  Tibby  was 
one  of  this  class ;  and,  to  hear  her  expressions,  as  she  un- 
dressed the  inanimate  body  of  her  husband,  one  could  not 


JOHN    BICKER.  165 


have  supposed  that  her  obstinacy  had  had  the  smallest  share 
in  his  destruction. 

"  Wae's  me,  John,  you  wad  na  hae  come  to  this  untimely 
end,  if  ye  had  ta'en  the  advice  o'  your  ain  Tibby.  Ye  wad 
hae  stopt,  comfortably,  by  your  ain  cosie  fireside,  and  no 
tempted  Providence  at  a'  the  hours  o'  the  nicht ;  weel  did  I 
ken  that  nae  good  could  come  of  it,  and  muckle  wark  I  had, 
to  try  to  keep  ye  at  hame.  But  no  ;  ower  my  back  ye  wad 
gang !" 

Tibby  was  here  interrupted  in  her  cogitations  by  auld 
Alice,  who  had  been  summoned  thither  by  the  rumor  which, 
by  this  time,  had  obtained  a  pretty  extensive  circulation. 
This  withered  sybil  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  mortality,  that  deaths  and  funerals  were  the 
chief  sources  of  her  enjoyments.  * 

Alice  kept  an  exact  register,  in  her  own  mind,  of  all  that 
had  died,  or  were  likely  to  die,  in  the  parish  of  Kilwoody ; 
could  name  all  the  otherwise  unrecorded  tenantry  of  the 
churchyard,  and,  as  if  she  expected  to  survive  all  the  present 
generation,  was  at  no  loss  in  assigning,  even  to  every  living 
inhabitant,  his  or  her  future  cold  and  narrow  mansion. 
Indeed,  the  region  of  death  seemed  to  be  the  element  in  which 
she  lived.  With  a  ready  tact,  and  handiness  of  manner, 
which  showed  that  her  heart  went  with  her  work,  she  closed 
the  dying  eyes  of  one,  stretched  out  another^  decently,  on  the 
board  which,  in  Scotland,  is  called  the  "dead  dale,"  and 
which  is  placed  under  the  corpse  previous  to  its  coffining :  and 
dressed  a  third  in  the  fancifully  cut  and  ornamented  garb  of 
the  grave,  the  work  of  her  own  taste  and  ingenuity,  which 
alas !  was  only  to  be  exhibited  for  a  moment  and  withdrawn 


166  JOHN    BICKER. 


from  mortal  sight  forever.  An  expected  death  produced  a 
feeling  of  calm  satisfaction  in  the  mind  of  Alice ;  hut  a  sud- 
den event,  of  the  kind  we  have  just  related,  seemed  to  be  a 
supernumerary  favor  conferred  hy  fortune,  in  her  kindest 
moments.  Alice,  therefore,  no  sooner  heard  of  the  circum- 
stance, than  she  flew  to  offer  her  services.  While  she  kindly 
enquired  into  the  particulars  of  the  affair,  her  interrogatories 
were  mingled  with  the  sagest  reflections  on  what  she  termed 
the  workings  of  Providence,  and  many  a  wistful  look  she  cast 
to  the  bed,  eager  for  the  signal  to  begin  her  operations. 

"  A  we  drap  of  water,  Tibby ;  and  just  tak'  the  chill  aff 
it.  A  bonny,  weel  formed  corpse  as  e'er  I  saw,  sin'  the  day 
Tarn  Mickleson  drapped  aff.  Haud  ye  up  the  jaw  bone,  till  I 
fasten  this  firmly  about  the  lugs.  That's  richt.  Na,  na, 
you  mauna  tie  it  there ;  pit  the  bonny  locks  just  aneath  the 
nicht-cap.  I  wish  we  had  the  dead  dale  here,  for  we  canna 
straught  him  weel  without ;  a'  the  joints  get  sae  stiff.  If 
they  be  supple  the  morn's  morn,  J'se  tell  you  what,  it's  a  sure 
sign  they'll  be  mair  ganging  the  gate  he's  gane  afore  the  year 
be  out." 

Alice  had  thus  far  proceeded,  when  they  were  joined  by  a 
much  less  disinterested  visiter,  Tarn  Mowat,  the  wright,  by 
whom  all  the  coffins  in  the  parish  of  Kilwoody  had  been  made, 
to  measure,  for  the  last  twenty  years,  for  he  kept  none  of 
those  ready-made  articles  which  are  to  be  seen  in  many  of 
our  cities  requiring  only  to  be  lined  and  finished  off  at  an 
hour's  notice.  The  bracing  air  of  Kilwoody,  in  spite  of  two 
Edinburgh  medical  professors  who  had  lately  set  up,  to  amend 
the  constitution  of  its  inhabitants,  seemed  so  obstinately  favor- 
able, at  loist  to  the  corporeal  sanity  that  Tarn  Mowat,  with 


JOHN    BICKER.  167 


the  assistance  of  an  apprentice  or  two,  could  execute  any 
order  as  soon  as  wanted. 

The  personage  we  have  mentioned  spoke  very  kindly  to  the 
widow  and  still  kindlier  to  auld  Alice,  whom  he  considered  as 
a  kind  of  jackall  to  his  profession.  He  had  called,  he  said, 
only  to  see  his  honest,  worthy  neighbor,  after  the  woful  and 
melancholy  accident. 

<;  There  was  nae  a  man  in  the  parish,"  he  said,  "  he  was 
mair  fond  o'  than  Mr.  John  Bicker ;  and  he  believed  there 
was  nae  another  man  of  sic  learning  left  in  a'  Kilwoody ;  but 
this,"  he  added,  "  is  betwixt  oursels,  and  ye  need  tak'  na  no- 
tice o'  it." 

Tibby  assented  to  the  truth  of  all  these  encomiums,  yet 
still  the  man  of  wood  had  the  mortification  of  not  being 
nearer  his  purpose.  After  as  many  hints  and  manoeuvres,  as 
might  have  been  beheld  with  admiration  by  a  city  dealer,  Tarn 
ventured  to  hope, 

"  That  his  auld  friend  wad  be  decently  interred,  becoming 
the  respectable  manner  he  had  aye  lived  in." 

"  God  forbid  he  shud  na,"  rejoined  auld  Alice, "  and  I'll  see 
the  grave  houked,  myself,  in  the  nor'  east  corner  within  a  fit  o' 
Babby  Wishart's  head  stane.  They  never  liked  yin  anither 
when  living,  but  they'll  sleep  quietly  thegither  for  a'  that." 

The  wright,  without  any  further  orders,  took  out  his  rule 
and  began  to  measure  the  length  of  his  old  acquaintance. 

"A  sax  feet  coffin  will  be  just  the  thing,"  said  he, 
«  and " 

"  Five  feet  and  a  half,"  interrupted  Tibby,  "  John  was 
only  five  feet  and  a  half." 

"  Pm  no  one,"  answered  the  wright,  "  that  likes  to  stint 


168  JOHN    BICKER. 


things ;  I  aye  mak'  it  a  point  to  give  a  corpse  plenty  of  room. 
It's  a  hard  thing  that  a  man's  to  be  strautened  in  his  coffin, 
whate'er  he  was  in  the  warld.  Let  me  see,  what  age  will  I 
call  him?" 

"  Twa-and-thirty,  next  September,"  answered  Tibby, 
"  and  be  sure  you  mak'  it  strang  and  firm." 

"  Leave  it  a'  to  me,"  returned  Thomas,  who  was  impatient 
to  take  his  leave,  having  accomplished  the  end  of  his  visit. 

The  two  ladies,  however,  insisted  upon  his  taking  a  glass 
previous  to  his  departure.  In  a  few  minutes  after,  the  dead 
dale  arrived,  and  Alice,  with  alacrity,  pursued  .her  willing 
task.  She  stretched  the  feet  nearly  parallel  te  each  other, 
laid  the  hands  by  the  side  and  spread  the  fingers  open ;  then, 
laying  a  sheet  over  the  whole  body,  she  placed  a  plateful  of 
salt  on  the  stomach  to  keep  of  the  influence  of  any  evil  spirit. 
Refreshing  herself  with  a  dram,  she  took  her  leave,  assuring 
Tibby  that  she  would  return  in  the  evening,  to  watch  the 
whole  night  by  the  side  of  the  corpse,  an  attention  which  the 
country  people  in  Scotland  never  omit  paying  to  their  deceased 
friends. 

In  our  large  cities  there  are  two  ways  of  being  carried  to 
our  long,  last  home.  In  a  hearse  with  nodding  plumes,  at- 
tended by  our  friends,  in  mourning  coaches,  or  borne  upon  the 
shoulders  of  undertaker's  porters,  followed  in  regular  files  by 
all  those  whom  duty  and  affection  summon  to  the  melancholy 
office.  In  Scotland  there  is  a  third,  the  only  one  practised 
among  the  poorer  class ;  the  coffin  is  laid  upon  two  or  three 
poles,  which  are  supported  on  each  sile  by  the  friends  of  the 
deceased,  who,  alternately,  relieve  each  other,  until  they  arrive 
at  the  grave. 


JOHN    BICKER.  1(J9 


When  a  Scotchman  dies,  his  relations  think  they  cannot 
show  a  greater  mark  of  inspect  to  his  memory,  than  by 
securing  a  numerous  attendance  at  his  funeral.  For  this  pur- 
pose, they  immediately  order  circular  letters  to  be  printed. 
They  bear  the  signature  of  the  nearest  relative  or  friend  and 
arj  drawn  up  in  formal  terms,  announcing  the  fatal  event,  the 
time  and  place  of  interment,  with  an  invitation  to  attend  the 
funeral.  These  letters  are  sent  to  every  person  with  whom 
the  deceased  is  supposed  to  have  had  the  most  distant  ac- 
quaintance, so  that  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that,  amongst 
the  crowd  which  accompanies  a  man  to  his  grave,  there  are 
found  some  who  had  scarcely  any  knowledge  of  his  person. 
On  the  day  of  interment,  as  the  persons  invited  are  too  nu- 
merous to  be  admitted  within  doors,  they  wait  in  the  street. 
Each  is  dressed  in  a  complete  suit  of  black,  so  that  it  is,  m 
general,  necessary,  for  the  pettiest  tradesman  or  mechanic, 
supposing  him  to  be  a  man  in  a  settled  line  of  business,  to  be 
provided  with  this  article,  (colored  clothes  being  considered 
inadmissible  and  indecorous,)  as  it  may  chance  for  him  to  be 
invited  to  twenty  of  these  occasions  in  the  course  of  a  year, 
many  of  which  he  may  find  it  imprudent  to  decline.  The 
funeral  is  seldom  delayed  beyond  the  third  day.  After  the 
crowd  have  waited  for  some  time,  the  coffin  containing  the 
body,  is  brought  out  and  placed  with  the  feet  forward.  The 
nearest  relations  gather  round  the  head,  and  the  rest  follow, 
promiscuously,  without  any  order  or  solemnity,  some  talking 
over  the  news  of  the  day,  or,  between  every  pinch  of  snuff, 
relating  anecdotes  of  the  deceased.  In  this  manner  they 
advance  to  the  place  of  interment.  No  clergyman  is  seen  in 

official  attendance,  no  burial  ceremony  is  performed ;  the  body 
8 


170  /OHN    BICKER. 


is  let  down  into  the  grave ;  the  company  uncover  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  aperture  is  closed  up,  and  all  but  the  immediate 
friends  of  the  deceased  disperse  to  their  respective  homes, 
none,  but  the  latter  description  of  persons  returning  to  the 
desolate  mansion.  It  may  be  proper,  also,  to  remark ;  that  in 
no  case  are  women  allowed  to  accompany  even  the  nearest 
and  best  beloved  of  their  friends. 

To  return  to  the  thread  of  our  story.  Alice  was  punctual 
to  her  appointment,  and  Tibby,  feeling  little  inclination  to 
sleep,  became  the  partner  of  her  vigils.  The  large  eight-day 
clock,  which  had  clicked  for  many  a  year  in  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  the  parlor,  had  been,  as  is  customary  on  such  occa- 
sions, condemned  to  temporary  silence,  and  the  tabby  cat,  who 
had  hitherto  roamed  unrestrained  was,  by  Alice's  direction, 
imprisoned  in  a  solitary  out  house.  Tibby  and  her  friend  sat 
themselves  down  on  each  side  of  a  comfortable  fire,  and, 
placing  the  large  family  Bible  on  the  table  between  them,  they 
read,  or  endeavored  to  read,  chapters,  alternately,  wisely 
passing  over  the  hard  names  which  now  and  then  occurred, 
neither  of  them  being  great  adepts  at  dissecting  polysyllables. 
This,  together  with  a  little  village  scandal,  a  ghost  story  or 
two  and  now  and  then  a  small  drop  of  comforting  liquor, 
enabled  the  ladies  to  pass  the  night  Avithout  much  uneasiness. 

The  next  day,  at  noon,  Tibby  was  rather  surprised  at  the 
entrance  of  two  clean,  neat,  and  rather  fashionably  dressed 
young  men,  who,  uncovering  as  they  approached,  with  a  great 
deal  of  politeness  informed  her,  that  they  were  Messrs. 
Cronic  and  McGruel,  surgeons  and  apothecaries  from  Edin- 
burgh, who  had  lately  commenced  practice  in  the  parish  of 
Kilwoody,  and  that  they  had  called  to  solicit  her  permission 


JOHN    BICKER.  171 


to  view  the  body  of  her  husband.  Tibby,  unable  to  divine 
the  cause  of  what  she  considered  their  singular  curiosity, 
would  fain  have  denied  their  request ;  but  she  was  not  a  little 
abashed  by  their  manner,  which,  though  gentlemanly,  was 
familiar  and  confident.  She,  almost  involuntarily,  muttered 
some  term  of  acquiescence.  The  two  Esculapian  philosophers 
approached  the  bed,  and  touched  the  body  in  several  places  ; 
their  observations  and  remarks  were  made,  according  to 
Tibby's  report,  in  Latin :  at  least,  what,  to  her,  seemed  just 
as  intelligible.  By  their  manner,  however,  she  guessed  that 
they  differed  in  opinion ;  but  after  a  few  minutes  of  wordy 
contention,  they  fixed  upon  a  method  of  elucidating  the  sub- 
ject; a  method,  which,  as  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
coroner's  inquest  in  Scotland,  they  knew  could  only  be  put 
into  practice  by  the  consent  of  Tibby.  This  was,  to  examine 
the  interior  of  the  deceased,  to  search  for  the  cause  of  his 
sudden  departure ;  the  body  exhibiting  appearances  by  no 
means  common  in  apoplexies.  Tibby  no  sooner  heard  this 
request,  than  she  lost  all  the  respect  with  which  she  had 
hitherto  treated  them.  She  flew  into  a  violent  rage,  and, 
being  joined  by  auld  Alice,  who  that  moment  entered  with 
part  of  the  grave  paraphernalia,  and  who  soon  understood 
from  the  ejaculations  of  her  friend  the  cause  of  the  dispute, 
such  a  clamor  ensued,  that  the  two  Galens  of  Kilwoody 
thought  it  best  to  make  a  timely  retreat. 

"  What !"  cried  Alice,  "  gie  honest  John  Bicker  to  the 
doctors,  like  a  hangit  man,  for  a'  the  Edinburgh  collegeners 
to  glowr  into  the  inside  o'  him !" 

"  God  keep  us  a',"  added  Tibby,  "  what  the  de'il  do  they 
want  to  see?  Our  John  was  shaped  like  ony  other  decent 


172  JOHN    BICKER. 


moil.  Pse  warrant  there  were  nae  follies  about  him,  mair 
than  about  ony  other." 

"Never  mind,  Davy  Gourlay  and  Saunders  Webster," 
answered  Alice,  "  will  sit  up  the  nicht  to  see  that  nae  harm 
happens  to  the  gude  mon,  and  we'll  have  a  gude  deep  grave 
houked  for  him,  the  morn's  mornin.  I  never  thought  those 
doctor  chiels  ower  canny.  There's  Saundy  Gordon,  he's  been 
cloghering  and  spitting  his  insides  out  for  thae  twa  or  three 
years,  and  they've  been  aye  gieing  him  this  bottle  and  that 
bottle.  Ouch  dear,  I  think  it's  fleeing  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence ;  and  the  doctors  will  have  it  a'  to  answer  for,  some 
day." 

On  the  morrow,  which  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  inter- 
ment, the  sable  crowd,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions, 
assembled.  About  half  an  hour  previous  Tarn  Mowat  had 
arrived  with  the  coffin.  The  body  had  been  dressed  with 
great  neatness  by  the  dextrous  hands  of  auld  Alice ;  a  glass 
of  wine  was  handed  to  each  of  the  few  persons  who  had 
entered  the  dwelling,  and  Tibby  was  desired  by  the  wright  to 
take  the  last  look  at  her  inanimate  husband.  It  was  then 
that  the  emotions,  which  she  had  hitherto  succeeded  in  sup- 
pressing, became  irresistibly  manifest.  She  was  for  a  few 
minutes  convulsed  with  sobbing ;  this  was  luckily  succeeded 
by  a  plentiful  shower  of  tears,  and — but  we  did  not  set  out 
with  the  intention  of  writing  a  pathetic  story :  suffice  it  to 
say,  that  the  dry  Dominie  was  soon  enclosed  in  that  narrow 
boundary,  which,  but  for  a  short  time,  prevents  us  from 
mingling  with  our  kindred  earth.  The  sad  reliques  of  mor- 
tality were  borne  to  the  door ;  the  velvet  mort-clotk,  as  it  is 
called  in  Scotland,  was  thrown  over  it,  and  the  procession, 


JOHN    BICKER.  173 

moving  on,  soon  arrived  at  the  church  yard  of  Kilwoody. 
Alice  watched  it  from  the  window  and  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised at  observing  the  two  surgeons,  Messrs.  Chronic  and 
McGruel  among  the  crowd  of  mourners.  She  was  morally 
certain  that  these  gentlemen  were  not  in  the  number  of  the 
invited ;  but  she  deferred  her  comments  on  this  singular  cir- 
cumstance to  a  more  convenient  opportunity.  The  reader, 
perhaps,  may  have  already  guessed  the  motives  of  the  aboro 
named  gentlemen,  in  endeavoring  to  ascertain  the  exact  spot 
of  interment.  The  difference  of  opinion  which  had  arisen 
between  them  at  the  house  of  John  Bicker,  had  continued  on 
their  way  home,  and,  like  all  other  disputes,  had  ended  in 
confirming  each  party  in  his  own  particular  opinion.  As  they 
had  been  disappointed  in  their  application  to  make  a  regular 
dissection,  they  were  determined  that  the  dry  Dominie  of  Kil- 
woody should  again  visit  the  upper  air.  In  the  larger  cities 
of  Europe  or  in  some  of  our  own,  as  New  York,  &c.  &. 
workmen  might  have  been  easily  found  to  effect  this  premature 
resurrection  ;  but,  in  Scotland,  we  believe  the  offer  of  future 
independence  could  not  have  bribed  the  poorest  peasant  to  the 
sacrilegious  operation.  The  two  men  of  science,  therefore, 
were  resolved,  in  the  "witching  time  of  night,"  to  take  the 
labor  upon  themselves ;  and,  accordingly,  being  provided  with 
a  pick-axe,  shovel  and  some  other  implements,  they,  about  an 
hour  after  midnight,  set  out  with  caution  and  noiseless  foot- 
steps, through  the  village,  to  violate  the  spot  where  so  many 
generations  of  the  natives  of  Kilwoody  had,  hitherto,  rested 
in  peace. 

The  church-yard  of  Kilwoody  was   situated  on  a  rising 
ground  which  seemed  to  have  been  fashioned  by  art  for  the 


174  JOHN   BICKER. 


purpose  for  which  it  was  then  employed.  It  was  surroundec 
by  a  wall  on  the  outside,  nearly  ten  feet  high,  but  little  more 
than  half  that  height  in  the  interior.  In  some  places,  where 
this  wall  had  been  broken*  down,  it  was  repaired,  like  many 
of  the  fences  in  Scotland,  with  rough,  unshapen  stones,  the 
angular  points  of  which,  rudely  fitting  together,  served  to  give 
it  some  degree  of  solidity  without  the  use  of  mortar.  We 
may  here  remark  that  the  barren  appearance  of  these  fences, 
frequently  impress  the  English  traveller  in  this  country,  as 
well  as  in  Scotland,  accustomed  as  he  is,  to  the  verdant 
enclosures  of  his  own  country,  with  an  idea  of  sterility,  which 
is,  by  no  means,  justly  imputable  to  the  soil.  The  night  was 
serene  and  mild ;  but  the  multitude  of  stars  which  spangled 
the  deep  blue  sky,  made  it  lighter  than  the  two  surgeons 
wished  for.  Shrouded  in  thick  great  coats  and  fur  travelling 
caps,  and  bearing  the  implements  for  disintering  the  Dominie, 
they  soon  arrived  at  the  church-yard,  where  the  rough  pro- 
tuberances of  the  uneven  walls  enabled  them  easily  to  reach 
the  top.  Having  attended  the  funeral  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
noting  the  situation  of  the  grave,  they  had  no  difficulty  in 
immediately  commencing  their  labor.  This  was  comparatively 
easy,  as  the  earth  still  lay  loose  and  light ;  yet,  ere  they  had 
arrived  at  the  coffin,  the  tender  skin  of  their  hands,  unac- 
customed to  such  friction,  began  to  convey  no  very  pleasant 
sensation.  They  persevered,  however ;  and,  at  last,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing,  by  the  hollow  sound,  that  they  had 
reached  the  surface  of  John  Bicker's  narrow  dwelling.  In  a 
little  time,  they  cleared  the  whole  extent,  and  with  their  tools, 
wrenching  open  the  lid  of  the  coffin,  soon  effected  the  resur- 
rection of  the  Dominie. 


JOHN    BICKER.  175 


u  Where  is  the  bag?"  said  one,  to  the  other;  and  it  was 
soon  discovered  that  each  had  carelessly  depended  on  the 
other  for  the  provision  of  this  necessary  article.  This  was 
vexatious ;  for  the  risk  of  detection  in  the  conveyance  was 
thereby  considerably  increased.  However,  they  were  forced 
to  trust  to  that  good  fortune,  which  had  hitherto  favored  their 
enterprise,  and,  placing  the  body  carefully  on  the  grass,  at 
some  little  distance,  by  the  side  of  a  distinguishable  tomb- 
stone, they  began,  with  alacrity,  to  re- fill  the  grave  with  earth 
and  again  make  up  the  hillock,  neatly  covered  with  turf, 
which,  to  the  eyes  of  a  whole  contemporary  generation,  marks 
the  peaceful  resting  place  of  even  the  lowliest  and  humblest 
of  the  Scottish  peasantry. 

While  they  were  employed  in  this  operation,  and  had 
nearly  completed  their  labor,  they  were  alarmed  by  the  sound 
of  a  deep,  hollow  groan.  It  broke,  for  a  moment  only,  the 
surrounding  stillness;  and,  indeed,  passed  away  almost  aa 
quick  as  the  instant  of  its  perception.  The  two  surgeons,  how- 
ever, started  up,  stared  aghast  at  each  other,  and,  without  utter- 
ing a  word,  listened  most  attentively.  Their  whole  souls  for 
some  moments  seemed  to  be  in  their  ears ;  but  all  was  silent. 

"  Did  not  that  seem  like  a  groan  7"  muttered  McGruel. 

"  Hush !"  replied  the  other,  catching  hold  of  his  friend's 
hand. 

They  again  bent  themselves  in  the  attitude  of  listening; 
but  all  was  still — the  air  was  even  calmly  still,  and  they  again 
began  to  adjust  the  turf. 

"  It  must,"  said  Chronic,  in  a  low  tone,  "  have  been  the 
sighing  of  th«  wind  among  the  tombstones ;  and  yet,  in  my 
ear,  nothing  could  sound  so  like  a  groan." 


176  JOHN    BICKER. 


"  Let  as  make  what  haste  we  can,"  returned  his  friend, 
"  there  may  be  other  living  creatures  beside  ourselves,  even  in 
the  precincts  of  this  church-yard." 

The  moment  their  work  at  the  grave  was  completed,  they 
carried  the  body  to  the  wall.  There,  placing  a  rope  under 
the  arm-pits,  they  slid  it  gently  down  the  deep  exterior ;  and, 
leaving  it  there,  leaped  back  into  the  church-yard  to  secrete 
their  tools  in  the  corner  of  a  dilapidated  tomb,  which,  at  a 
very  remote  period,  had  contained  the  bones  of  some  favorite 
retainer  of  the  ancient  barons  of  Kilwoody.  Every  thing 
being  prepared  for  their  departure,  McGruel  first  mounted 
the  low  wall,  at  the  spot  where  he  had  deposited  the  corpse  of 
the  Dominie.  Previous  to  his  meditated  descent  on  the 
outside,  he  darted  his  eye  through  the  gloom  below,  as  if 
measuring  the  extent  of  the  leap,  when  suddenly  uttering  an  ex- 
clamation of  terror  or  surprise,  he  rushed  back  to  his  friend. 

"  Gracious  God !"  exclaimed  the  amazed  surgeon,  "  he  is 
moving  from  the  wall !" 

His  companion,  inspired  more  by  curiosity  than  alarm, 
looked  immediately  over,  and  to  his  utter  astonishment,  beheld 
John  Bicker,  the  dominie,  seated,  as  well  as  he  could  distin- 
guish, at  some  little  distance  on  the  ground. 

"  I  must  be  certain,"  said  Chronic,  "  that  this  is  no  delu- 
sion. Follow  me." 

So  saying,  he  leaped  from  the  wall  and  was  immediately 
imitated  by  his  companion.  They  ran  to  the  spot,  and,  with- 
out giving  themselves  tune  for  reflection,  grasped  the  dominie 
in  their  arms. 

"  Are  you  really  a  living  man  ?"  said  McGruel,  with  great 
earnestness. 


JOHN    BICKER.  177 


"  Where  am  I  ?"  returned  the  Dominie  in  a  low,  languid 
and  feeble  voice,  which  marked  the  extreme  degree  of  debility 
to  which  he  was  reduced. 

"Thank  God!"  answered  Chronic,  "we  have  come  to 
deliver  you  from  a  death,  at  which  the  imagination  shudders. 
Had  we  been  but  a  few  moments  later  you  might  have  suffered 
the  short  but  horrid  consciousness  of  being  in  the  grave." 

The  Dominie  by  his  actions  seemed  unable  to  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  their  words,  and  appeared  nearly  fainting, 
when  the  two  surgeons  placed  to  his  mouth  a  bottle  of  wine 
which  they  had  brought  as  a  cordial  for  themselves.  The  few 
drops  he  swallowed  revived  him,  and  Me  Gruel  disrobing  him- 
self of  his  great  coat,  wrapped  it  carefully  round  him. 
Whilst  they  were  about  this  charitable  act,  John  Bicker,  by 
the  feeble  light,  perceived  the  habiliments  of  mortality  with 
which  he  was  clothed,  and,  with  a  shuddering  of  horror, 
demanded  an  explanation. 

"  There  is  time  enough  for  that,"  replied  the  surgeons, 
"  when  you  are  more  recovered.  Try  if  you  are  able  to  walk, 
with  our  support ;  we  shall  conduct  you  to  our  home,  where 
you  shall  obtain  the  quiet  repose  and  invigorating  medicines 
you  seem  so  much  to  need. 

The  Dominie  felt  sufficient  strength  to  move  along,  leaning 
on  the  arms  of  the  two  surgeons.  On  their  way  they  gave 
him  a  full  explanation  of  the  causes  of  his  late  condition ;  a 
narrative  to  which  he  listened  with  the  deepest'interest,  inter- 
mingled with  those  shuddering  emotions,  which  we  feel  on 
looking  back  at  any  dangerous  situation  in  which  we  have  been 
placed,  our  deliverance  from  which  has  been  effected  neither 
by  our  own  wisdom  nor  courage,  but  by  a  fortunate  circum- 


178  JOHN    BICKER. 

stance  upon  which  we  could  never  again  depend.  It  was  at 
this  moment  that  his  new  friends  took  an  opportunity  of 
setting  forth  to  him,  the  necessity,  the  importance,  and  the 
blessings  of  temperance.  It  is  needless  to  detail,  to  the 
reader,  what  was  said  on  the  subject,  but  every  word  sank 
deep  into  the  heart  of  the  Dominie.  With  a  mind  capable 
of  higher  pursuits  and  an  elevation  of  ideas,  inspired  by  the 
partly  classical  education  he  had  received,  he  now  felt  a  loath- 
ing at  the  vulgar  and  sensual  debauchery,  into  which  the 
ardent  sociality  of  his  temper  had  seduced  him.  This  frame 
of  mind  was,  no  doubt,  strengthened  by  the  recollections, 
which  momentarily  pressed  upon  his  imagination,  of  the 
horrid  fate  which  seemed  to  have  been  averted  from  him  by 
a  special  interposition  of  Providence. 

"  I'll  make  nae  solemn  promises,"  said  he,  as  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  multitude  of  stars  which  bespangled  the  deep, 
dark  azure  sky ;  I'll  make  nae  solemn  promises  to  heaven,  for 
that,  perhaps,  would  be  a  presumptuous  confiding  in  my  own 
strength ;  but  let  thae  bonny,  twinkling  lights  bear  witness,  at 
least,  how  I  wish  to  become  an  altered  man." 

"  This,  to  you,"  replied  McGruel,  "  is  a  new  starting  post 
of  existence ;  let  every  step  of  your  future  course  be  in  the 
path  of  prudence  and  virtue." 

The  Dominie  seemed  absorbed,  for  a  few  moments,  in  deep 
abstraction.  He  had,  evidently,  made  up  his  mind  to  some 
resolution  which  he  did  not  then  disclose ;  he  only  ended  his 
reverie  by  the  exclamation, 

"  All  believe  me  dead ;  and  but  to  one  I  shall  be  dead !" 

On  their  way  to  the  dwelling  of  the  surgeons,  they  necessa- 
rily passed  the  public  house  of  Saunders  Glasse,  where  the 


JOHN    BICKER.  179 


schoolmaster  had  so  often  rioted  away  his  substance  and  so 
lately  endangered  his  existence.  It  is  hard  to  describe  the 
shuddering  of  horror  with  which  he  approached  the  place. 
This  was  not  a  little  increased  by  the  sounds  of  jovial  merri- 
ment, that  arose  from  the  drunken  crew  within.  Begging  his 
new  friends  to  stop,  for  a  moment,  he  applied  his  eye  to  a 
broken  part  of  the  window  shutter  and  beheld  his  former 
companions,  with  joined  hands,  in  a  circle,  round  a  large  bowl 
of  punch,  reeling  and  shouting,  with  all  the  vociferation  of 
delirious  inebriety.  The  effect  of  this  scene  was  heightened 
by  the  sable  garb  of  mourning,  still  worn  by  the  party,  all  of 
them  having  been,  the  preceding  day,  at  the  funeral.  The 
Dominie,  at  this  moment,  could  not  resist  the  opportunity 
afforded  him,  of  endeavoring,  however  ludicrously,  to  effect 
the  reformation  of  his  former  associates.  Raising  his  well 
known  voice  as  much  as  his  slowly-recovered  strength  would 
permit  him;  the  surgeons  having,  previously,  thundered  on 
the  window  shutters,  with  their  fists,  to  command  attention, 
he  thus  addressed  them  : 

"Besotted  drunkards!  is  the  little  reason  that  God  has 
given  you,  so  puir  a  gift,  that  you  find  your  greatest  pleasure 
in  its  destruction  1  Winna  my  awfu'  fate  warn  you?  Maun 
I  come  frae  the  grave  to  preach,  to  you,  repentance  ?" 

The  momentary  silence  which  followed  this  address  was 
soon  interrupted  by  drunken  Davey  Gourlay,  who,  striking  his 
fists  with  great  vehemence  on  the  table,  exclaimed, 

"  May  I  taste  never  anither  drap,  if  that  binna  Johnny 
Bicker's  voice  and,  dead  or  alive,  de'il  may  caie,  we'll  drink 
thegither;"  so  saying,  he  snatched  up  one  of  the  bumpers 
staggered  towards  the  door,  and  the  party  on  the  outside 


180 


JOHN    BICKER. 


might  have  soon  heen  detected  to  have  been  of  this  earth's 
gross  substance,  had  they  not,  immediately,  withdrawn. 
Drunken  Davey,  disappointed  in  finding  the  object  of  his 
search,  staggered  back  again.  "  It  was  Johnny  Bicker'a 
voice  I'll  swear,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  what  the  de'il  did  he 
say !" 

The  whole  company  with  the  exception  of  Saunders  Web- 
ster, expressed  their  total  want  of  recollection;  the  latter, 
hiccoughing  as  he  spoke,  asserted  that  he  remembered  it  per- 
fectly well. 

"  We  were  a'  desired,"  said  he,  "  to  take  a  wanting  that 
people  of  reason  had  the  gift  of  getting  drunk  in  the  grave." 

"  The  very  words !"  vociferated  all  the  party,  "  for  mind 
ye,"  added  drunken  Davey,  "the  ither  warld  is  the  land 
of  spirits,  and  as  this  is  Britain,  why  it  maun  be  British 
spirits,  the  very  words  Saunders  Glasse  has  painted  aboun 
his  door." 

The  accuracy  of  Davey's  logic,  was,  without  farther  exam- 
ination, taken  for  granted,  the  party  again  filled  their  bumpers 
and,  as  far  as  their  growing  insensibility  would  allow,  the 
former  scene  of  thoughtless  uproar  was  resumed. 

The  two  surgeons,  without  farther  interruption,  conducted 
the  revived  Dominie  to  their  genteel,  clean,  and  comfortable 
dwelling.  Having  supplied  him  cautiously  with  nourishment, 
they  caused  a  bed  to  be  prepared  for  that  repose,  which  was 
chiefly  wanting  for  the  recovery  of  his  strength.  In  a  few 
moments  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  and  his  attentive  hosts,  who 
visited  him  from  time  to  time,  beheld,  with  satisfaction,  that 
his  slumber  was  of  a  kindly  nature  which  promised  speedy 
renovation  to  his  languid  frame.  He  continued  in  this  state 


JOHN    BICKER.  181 


the  whole  of  the  day  and  it  was  not  till  evening  that  he 
awoke,  wonderfully  refreshed  in  body  and  mind,  when  he 
bethought  himself  of  putting  in  practice  the  project  he  had 
conceived  in  the  early  part  of  the  morning.  He  arose, 
dressed  himself  in  clothes  which  had  been  left  for  that  pur- 
pose in  his  bed-room.  Fearful  lest  his  new  friends  would 
oppose  what  they  might  consider  his  premature  departure, 
he  stole,  softly,  to  the  door ;  and,  hoping  to  escape  unper- 
ceived  in  the  increasing  darkness,  cautiously  crept  along, 
taking  the  nearest  way  to  his  own  home. 

Tibby  had,  that  evening,  twenty  times  oftener  than  was 
necessary,  stirred  the  large  coal  fire,  till  it  blazed  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  trimmed  the  lamp,  which  hung  over  the  mantle  piece. 
She  had  busied  herself  all  day  to  get  rid  of  the  uneasy 
thoughts  which  oppressed  her ;  and  during  day-light,  assisted 
by  the  kind  condolence  of  her  neighbors,  she  had  pretty  well 
succeeded ;  but  towards  evening,  as  these  visitors  departed, 
the  dreary  sense  of  her  hopeless,  lonely  situation,  almost 
overcame  her.  Among  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  the  widow 
is  supposed  to  possess  a  sacred  claim  on  the  good  will  and 
attention  of  all  that  surround  her.  Heaven  is  supposed, 
peculiarly,  to  interest  itself  in  her  cause,  consecrating  her 
blessings  and  avenging «her  injuries ;  yet  with  all  this,  Tibby, 
when  necessarily  left  alone,  felt  as  if  the  world  did  not  now 
contain  one  being  in  whose  interests  she  could  participate. 
She  looked  around  her,  till  every  object  that  met  her  eye 
seemed  to  lay  its  heavy  load  upon  her  heart.  She  gazed  at 
the  glowing  embers  of  the  fire  and  hardly  felt  the  scalding 
tears  which  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  She  now  turned  to 
the  bed,  which,  but  yesterday,  had  exhibited  the  most  mourn- 


182 


JOHN    BICKER. 


ful  spectacle  she  had  ever  beheld.  A  nearer  object  now  more 
deeply  interested  her,  the  vacant  chair  at  the  fireside,  where 
her  husband  had  held  his  seat,  by  prescriptive  right ;  a  magis- 
terial throne,  which  Tibby,  amid  all  her  rebellions,  had  never 
dared  to  usurp.  It  was  now  empty  and,  as  if  to  get  rid  of 
its  forever  hopeless  vacancy,  with  despairing  sobs,  she 
threw  herself  into  it.  The  consciousness  that  she  had  been, 
to  say  the  least,  unkind  and  unrelenting,  tore  her  heart  with 
agony. 

"  Oh !  that  he  had  died  in  peace  with  me,"  cried  she.  "  If 
I  could  hae  seen  him  but  for  a  moment.  He  was  ower  kind 
to  me  and  I  did  nae  deserve  it — but  nae  matter,"  she  added, 
bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  "  it  winna  be  lang  afore  we  lie 
in  ae  cauld  grave  thegither." 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  some  person  at  the  door 
assailed  her  ear ;  but,  how  was  she  astonished,  when  she 
heard  the  well-known  voice  of  her  husband,  saying : 

"  Dinna  be  frightened,  Tibby !  dinna  be  frightened,  my 
woman !" 

She  started  from  her  seat  and,  looking  round,  beheld  him 
within  the  threshold.  Tibby  trembled  with  agitation,  without 
the  power  of  uttering  the  faintest  cry  of  terror. 

"  Dinna  be  frightened,"  reiterated  tiie  Dominie,  "  dinna  be 
frightened,  my  lassie ;  not  for  the  warld's  wealth  wad  I  harm 
ye." 

Saying  these  words,  he  made  a  motion  to  approach  nearer, 
when,  with  a  confused  idea  of  supernatural  danger,  Tibby 
snatched  up  the  large  family  Bible  which  lay  upon  the  table. 
The  sacred  volume  is,  in  Scotland,  supposed  to  be  the  most 
effective  shield  with  which  a  guiltless  heart  can  be  guarded  in 


JOHN    BICKER.  183 


the  dangerous  intercourse  with  disembodied  spirits,  and  Tibby 
grasped  it  firmly  in  her  arms.  She  fixed  her  eyes,  intently, 
on  her  husband's  countenance  and  saw  it  not  only  beaming 
with  affectionate  regard,  but  that  there  was  nothing  the  least 
unearthly  in  its  appearance.  She  soon  found  herself  so  far 
recovered,  as,  with  faltering  voice,  to  mutter  something  which 
seemed  an  inquiry  as  to  the  object  of  his  awful  visit. 

"Ye  ken,  Tibby  my  dear,"  said  the  Dominie,  "ye  ken 
that  your  father,  a  wee  while  afore  he  died,  sold  a'  his  kye, 
and  gev  you  the  siller,  now  ye  never  wad  tell  me  where  ye  had 
hid  it :  this  is  my  first  business  wi'  ye,  my  woman." 

"  There,  there,"  said  Tibby,  pointing  with  eagerness  to 
a  corner  under  the  farthest  bed-post;  "fifty-four  pounds,  sax- 
teen  shillings." 

John  easily  found  the  money,  and,  securing  it  in  his  pocket : 

"  Now,  Tibby,"  said  he,  "  gie  me  your  hand ;  will  ye  gang 
alang  wi'  me?" 

"  No !  no !"  replied  Tibby,  while  an  icy  coldness  ran 
through  her  veins,  "no !  not  till  God's  time  come." 

"  But  I'm  alive,  woman,"  returned  the  Dominie,  "  alive 
and  as  well  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life.  I  was  only  in  a  fit ;  the 
doctors  got  me  out  of  the  grave ; — convince  yourself  that  I 
am  alive." 

Ere  Tibby  was  aware,  she  felt  one  of  her  hands  grasped  in 
both  those  of  her  husband. 

"  Do  you  not  feel,"  he  added,  "  that  I  am  flesh  and 
blood?" 

Tibby's  terror  yielded  to  the  conviction  of  her  senses,  as 
she  suffered  her  husband  to  impress  the  warm  kiss  of  affection 
on  her  lips. 


184  JOHN    BICKER. 


"I  am  a  reformed  man,  Tibby,"  said  he.  "  I  see  the 
folly,  the  madness  of  my  former  conduct " 

"  And  I  see  the  cruelty  of  mine,"  interrupted  his  wife,  aa 
she  hung  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Let  us  leave  this  place,  for  ever,"  returned  the  Dominie ; 
"  my  former  worthless  associates  believe  me  dead,  and  we 
canna  hae  a  better  opportunity  of  parting  wi'  them ;  with  this 
little  money  we'll  gang  to  Edinburgh  and  begin  some  line  of 
business,  where,  if  industry,  frugality  and  temperance,  ever 
meet  their  reward,  we  maun  thrive.  Greet  nae  mair,  Tibby, 
dry  your  e'en ;  will  ye  come  wi'  me  ?" 

"  Oh  !  to  the  warld's  end,"  was  the  ready  answer,  and  they 
both  immediately  set  about  making  preparations  for  their 
departure. 

The  silver  teaspoons,  marked  with  husband  and  wife's 
initials  joined  in  an  involving  cypher,  the  guidman's  watch, 
articles  which  are  hardly  ever  wanting  in  the  dwellings  of  the 
Scottish  peasantry,  were  easily  stowed  about  their  persons, 
and  the  more  ponderous  part  of  their  property  Tibby,  by  her 
husband's  direction,  transferred  in  writing  to  the  care  of  the 
two  surgeons.  Thus  prepared,  they  set  out,  the  darkness  of 
the  night  favoring  their  concealment  and  were  soon  arm  in 
arm,  with  the  most  vivid  hopes  and  ardent  resolutions,  on  the 
great  road  to  Edinburgh.  Early  next  day,  the  whole  village 
of  Kilwoody  was  not  a  little  alarmed  by  the  news  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  dry  Dominie's  widow.  It  was  sagely  con- 
jectured, that  the  apparition  of  her  husband  had  in  revenge 
for  her  usage  of  him  carried  her  away,  bodily,  to  the  other 
world.  The  whiskey  topers  at  Saunders  Glasse's  had  some 
«onfused  remembrance  of  having  seen  or  heard  the  phantom 


JOHN    BICKER.  185 


on  the  way  to  its  unhallowed  purpose,  while  not  a  few  of  the 
old  women,  on  being  made  acquainted  with  the  circumstance, 
perfectly  recollected  perceiving  an  extraordinary  blue  flame, 
the  preceding  evening,  hovering  around  the  Dominie's  dwell- 
ing. Some  had  even  heard  what  they  called  an  "  awfu'  and 
indescribable  noise,"  which  must  have  taken  place  at  the 
moment  when  the  vengeful  spirit  flew  through  the  air  with  his 
prey.  Auld  Alice  blessed  herself  that  John  Bicker  could 
have  no  quarrel  with  her,  as  she  had  made  his  grave  clothes 
of  the  neatest  pattern,  and  Tarn  Mowat,  the  wright,  pro- 
tested that  wherever  the  soul  of  the  dry  Dominie  might  then 
be,  he  was  sure  his  body  was  safe  betwixt  "  sax  good  pieces 
of  wood  as  ever  were  planed." 

John  Bicker  and  .his  wife,  on  their  arrival  at  Edinburgh, 
rented  a  small  store  in  the  grass  market,  and  laid  out  their 
little  sum  of  money  in  dry  goods  and  hosiery.  They  wrote 
an  account  of  their  proceedings,  to  their  friends,  the  two 
doctors,  who  feeling  a  wish  to  promote  their  interests,  fur- 
nished them  with  recommendations  to  several  respectable 
persons.  This  increased  their  business  and  credit  and  every 
day  saw  them  making  gradual  advances  to  a  comfortable 
independence.  John  soon  transferred  his  stock  to  larger 
premises  in  the  Lawn  Market.  The  rest  of  his  history  may 
be  related  in  a  few  words.  He  at  last  settled  near  the  Tron 
Kirk,  at  the  time  when  the  line  of  houses  in  High  street 
joined  that  edifice,  the  South  bridge  not  being  then  projected. 
Having  been  fortunate  in  his  speculations  as  a  wholesale 
merchant,  he  was  chosen  one  of  the  baillies  of  the  city. 
[This  office  is  nearly  the  same  as  that  of  alderman  in  New 
York.]  In  this  honorable  situation,  he  acquitted  himself 


186        THE  WIDOW  TO  THE  BRIDE. 


with  impartiality  and  considerable  talent,  and  those  who 
beheld  him  in  the  municipal  chair,  dressed,  officially,  in 
black,  with  the  golden  chain  of  dignity  and  the  medallion 
of  justice  depending  from  his  neck,  could  never  have  re- 
cognised in  the  grave  magistrate,  the  drunken,  dry  Dominie 
of  Kilvroody. 


WSBOW  20   228  B&1BB. 

BY    MARY    N.    MEIOS. 

I  SAW  thee  wedded,  lady, 

At  the  altar's  holy  side, 
As  with  roses  'mid  thy  shining  hair 

Thou  stood'st  a  happy  bride. 
The  soft  light  o'er  that  joyous  band, 

A  tender  radiance  shed, 
While  priestly  word  and  marriage  ring 

Proclaimed  thee  duly  wed. 

I  saw  the  wedded, lady, 

With  the  love-light  on  thy  brow, 
And  I  caught  thy  low-breathed  whisper 

Of  the  holy  marriage  vow, 
And  by  the  quick  pulsation 

In  my  bosom's  inmost  core, 
I  knew  thy  heart  was  throbbing, 

As  it  ne'er  had  throbbed  before. 


THE    WIDOW    TO    THE    BRIDE.  187 


I  saw  thee  wedded, lady, 

And  my  thoughts  went  roving  back 
To  a  bridal  day,  which  long  ago, 

Illumed  life's  sunny  track  ; 
When,  like  thyself,  I  vowed  to  love 

Through  weal  and  wo  for  life, 
And  with  the  golden  circlet,  claimed 

That  sweetest  name,  of  wife. 

Oh !  marvel  not,  if,  'mid  the  smiles 

That  graced  thy  nuptial  hour, 
Mine  eyes  were  wet  with  burning  tears 

Which  fell  like  summer  shower : 
It  was  not  envy  of  thy  lot, 

Nor  sorrow  at  thy  bliss  ; 
1  would  not  that  thy  cup  of  joy 

One  shining  drop  should  miss. 

But  oh  !  'twas  memory,  memory's  power, 

Which  thus  my  spirit  bowed, 
I  knelt  again  as  once  I  knelt, 

And  vowed  as  once  I  vowed. 
Methought  I  stood  as  thou  didst  stand, 

The  loved  one  at  my  side — 
Then  looked  upon  my  darkened  robes, 

The  widowed,  not  the  bride  ! 

Yet,  lady,  though  my  heart  was  sad. 

As  sad  it  oft  must  be. 
Heaven's  best  and  holiest  benison, 

'Twould  still  call  down  on  thee : 
Joy  to  the  bride !    Love's  brightest  wreath 

For  thee  may  true  love  twine, 
And  be  thy  wedded  life  as  blest, 

And  oh !  less  brief,  than  mine. 


188  THE   HUNGARIAN   WIFE. 


2HB   HTTI6A&SA!  WX2S, 

BY    MRS.    M.    E.    HEWITT. 

WAKE  !  hearts  beloved !  the  midnight  stars 

Move,  hushed,  through  yonder  sky ; 
Love's  hand  hath  loosed  thy  dungeon  bars, 

Love  bids  thee  wake  and  fly  ! 
A  swift  ship  goes  across  the  main, 

Free  shores  our  coining  wait ; 
Our  land  still  wears  her  galling  chain, 
Our  homes  are  desolate. 

Yet  still  our  hearts  give  out  the  cry, 

As  from  the  battle's  van, 
"  Hungaria  !    Ilungaria  ! 
Death  to  the  Austrian !" 

Ah  !  what  avails  the  burning  word 

That  stirs  the  soul  of  life  ? 
Our  wounded  country  bears  her  sword 

All  broken  from  the  strife. 
The  Austrian  and  the  Muscovite 

Have  woven  wide  her  pall, 
And  the  Moslem's  bond-word  holds,  to-night, 
Her  glorious  sons  in  thrall. 

Haste  !  haste,  beloved !  and  still  our  cry, 

In  yon  blest  land  shall  be 
"  Hungaria  !    Hungaria  ! 

Our  home,  and  Liberty  !" 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  189 


$28 


BY     REV.     THEO        T.  E  D  Y  A  R  D     CUYLER 

A  GREAT  many  Temperance  Stories  have  already  been 
written  ;  some  humorous,  and  some  pathetic  ;  some  fictitious, 
and  some,  like  the  following,  "  founded  on  fact."  Many  of 
the  ablest  pens  in  our  land  have  been  employed  in  portraying 
the  miseries  and  the  fate  of  those  who  "  tarry  long  at  the 
wine  ;  who  go  to  seek  mixed  wine."  It  may  seem,  therefore, 
highly  presumptuous  in  me  to  ask  the  reader  to  give  me  his 
attention  while  I  tell  him,  in  a  very  few  words,  My  Temper- 
ance Story. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  harbor  of  Liver- 
pool, on  board  the  noble  packet  ship  -  ,  I  stood,  leaning 
over  the  railing  of  the  quarter-deck,  watching  the  steerage 
passengers,  as  they  were  cooking  their  suppers  in  the  mid- 
ships below.  It  was  a  picturesque  sight.  As  the  small  peat 
fire  in  the  brazier  threw  its  flickering  light  on  the  wild,  ragged 
group,  I  was  strongly  reminded  of  the  gipsey  gangs  that  still 
infest  some  of  the  rural  districts  of  England.  Most  of  them 
were  Irish  ;  but  I  could  detect  occasionally  the  burly  face  of 
the  English  peasantry;  and  there  was  an  old  German,  in 
close  scull-cap  and  long,  blue  gown,  who  sat  stirring  his  por- 
ringer, like  some  alchemist  over  his  magic  bo^l. 

Just  beneath  where  I  stood,  I  noticed,  particularly,  a  pale, 
delicate  woman,  bending  over  the  fire,  preparing  her  humble 


190  THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 

meal.  Sometimes  she  would  turn  around,  and  listen  to  a 
rough,  red-faced  man,  who  addressed  her  in  no  very  gentle 
tones ;  and  sometimes  she  would  stop  to  play  with  two  rosy 
children,  who  sat  by  her  on  a  chest.  Her  form  was  slender, 
and  she  had  once  been  handsome ;  and  there  was  an  unmis- 
takable air  of  refinement  in  her  gentle  manner,  and  the 
attempted  neatness  of  her  coarse  dress,  that  made  her, 
among  the  squalid  objects  around  her,  like  Wordsworth's 
peasant  girl,  "  a  sunshine  in  the  shade."  When  their  scanty 
meal  was  ready,  she  took  the  youngest  child  by  the  hand,  and 
beckoned  to  the  surly  fellow  behind  her,  who  followed  her 
down  the  gangway,  swearing  fiercely  as  he  went. 

A  flattering  prospect,  thought  I,  for  this  delicate  creature, 
who  is  doomed  to  leave  home  and  kindred  in  the  tender  keep- 
ing of  such  a  brute.  A  porcelain  vase  would  as  well  be 
trusted  in  the  hands  of  a  savage !  For  a  young  wife  and 
mother  to  go  far  from  her  native  land  into  the  wilds  of  an 
American  forest,  is  hardship  enough,  even  with  the  best  of 
protectors  ;  but  a  drunken  husband  "  who  can  bear  ?" 

For  some  days  after,  I  noticed,  by  his  unsteady  gait  and 
rude  treatment  of  every  one  who  approached  him,  that  he 
was  continually  under  the  excitement  of  drink,  of  which  he 
had  smuggled  a  considerable  quantity  on  board.  This  was 
once  very  common,  especially  among  the  Irish  emigrants, 
whose  generous  liberality  to  the  seamen  sometimes  endan- 
gered the  safety  of  the  ship.  But,  thanks  to  a  merciful  God, 
who  has  sent  to  suffering  Ireland  the  GREAT  APOSTLE  of 
Temperance,  this  evil  is  well-nigh  done  away,  and  the 
emigrants  from  that  country  are  now  remarkable  for  their 
quietness  and  sobriety. 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 


This  man,  I  observed,  from  the  effect  of  continued  intoxi- 
cation, soon  became  quarrelsome ;  and,  one  day,  in  the  fieat 
of  a  scuffle  on  the  forecastle,  he  was  pitched  upon  the  main 
deck,  and  his  head  struck  upon  the  iron  cable  coiled  over  the 
windlass.  He  was  taken  up  insensible ;  and  a  physician, 
who  happened  io  be  among  the  cabin  passengers,  was  called 
down,  and  pronounced  his  recovery  hopeless.  In  the  evening, 
I  went  down  to  visit  him.  A  steerage  is  at  best  but  a 
noisome  place — to  a  sick  man,  it  must  be  a  very  "  black  hole 
of  Calcutta."  The  squalid  beings  who  herded  together  in 
the  same  cabin,  were  gathered  in  silent  groups  at  the  farther 
extremity,  and  many  had  retreated  to  the  main  deck.  He 
was  in  the  last  stages  of  a  violent  fever,  accompanied  with  a 
most  frightful  delirium.  Over  his  poor  pallet,  bent  one 
woman — the  same  delicate  form  I  had  noticed  on  the  first 
evening;  and  in  the  intervals  of  his  paroxysm,  her  deep- 
drawn  sighs  could  be  distinctly  heard.  It  was  nothing  to  her 
now  that  he  had  so  lately  abused  her,  and  reviled  her,  and 
even  cursed  her,  while  performing  for  him  offices  of  kindness. 
He  was  in  his  dying  agonies  ;  and  she  was  his  wife,  and  that 
was  enough. 

I  could  l>e  of  no  service  there,  and  the  scene  was  too  much 
for  me  to  bear.  When  I  returned  to  the  saloon  of  the  vessel, 
handsomely  garnished  and  brilliantly  lighted,  and  found  my 
fellow-passengers  lounging  on  the  sofas,  with  a  novel  in  their 
hands,  or  gathered  around  the  whist-table,  laughing  and  jest- 
ing, I  was  forcibly  reminded  by  the  contrast  of  the  strange 
world  in  which  we  live,  where  joy  and  sorrow  are  brought  into 
Startling  proximity ;  and  where,  as  in  a  great  city,  there  ia 
often  but  a  thin  wall  separating  the  travails  of  birth  from  the 


192  THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 

gayety  of  the  bridal  party  and  the  still  chamber  of  death. 
The  next  morning,  when  I  came  on  deck,  I  observed  an 
unusual  soberness  on  every  face.  A  group  were  collected 
around  the  mainmast,  gazing  silently  at  some  object  on  the 
deck  below.  I  came  up  behind  them,  and  looking  over  the 
railing,  I  "felt  that  it  was  a  corpse!"  Afte*  the  summary 
fashion  on  board  ship,  it  was  inclosed  in  blankets,  bound 
around  with  coils  of  rope,  and  stretched  upon  a  plank.  To 
the  feet,  a  large  weight  was  soon  attached,  and  the  whole  was 
then  swung  over  the  ship's  side  and  made  fast  with  ropes. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  concluded,  the  boatswain  piped 
all  hands  to  the  burial.  The  steerage  passengers  were  seated 
on  the  long-boat  and  the  water-barrels,  and  the  cabin 
passengers  were  gathered  on  the  quarter-deck.  When  the 
poor  widow  had  come  forward,  and  taken  her  seat  on  a  little 
cabin-stool  set  for  the  purpose,  with  her  two  children  by  her 
side,  the  captain  commenced  reading  the  burial  service. 
That  nobly  eloquent  service  never  sounded  to  me  more 
solemn.  When  the  captain  had  concluded  the  words,  "  We 
therefore  commit  his  body  to  the  deep,"  the  signal  was  given. 
A  heavy  plash  was  heard,  and  the  unsightly  mass  sunk  "  like 
lead  in  the  mighty  waters."  There  was  a  general  rush  to  the 
ship's  side,  as  soon  as  the  plunge  was  heard :  but  a  few  bub- 
bles merely  were  seen  rising  to  the  surface — the  only 
memorials  that  shall  ever  rise  to  mark  his  resting-place. 

During  the  day,  the  wind  died  away,  and  by  night  we  were 
perfectly  becalmed.  I  passed  the  evening,  as  I  did  many 
while  at  sea,  in  walking  the  deck,  and  enjoying  the  calm 
quiet  of  an  ocean  solitude.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring. 
The  sails  were  idly  flapping  against  the  mast,  as  the  ship 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  193 

swung  slowly  to  and  fro  on  the  long  glassy  swells.  The 
moon  had  just  risen  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  and  poured 
its  hroad  stream  of  light,  which  played  and  flashed  on  the 
slow  undulations  of  the  waters.  While  I  stood  watching  this 
peculiarly  beautiful  appearance  of  the  rays  upon  the  ocean, 
•^hich  every  one  who  has  been  to  sea  must  have  observed,  I 
saw  a  female  come  up  from  the  gangway,  and,  creeping  up 
upon  the  pile  of  spars  where  the  body  had  laid,  sat  down  and 
gazed  intently  down  into  the  water.  It  was  the  poor  widow. 
She  had  no  grave  to  go  to;  she  <•  uld  only  look  upon  the 
treacherous  sea,  which  had  so  suddenly  swallowed  up  all  that 
was  left  of  him  she  had  so  long  loved.  When  I  looked  at  the 
heart-stricken  woman,  solitary  and  forlorn,  bereft  even  of 
her  "  broken  reed,"  and  left  with  her  helpless  children,  alone, 
in  the  middle  of  the  wide  ocean,  my  heart  ached  for  her. 
To  my  mind,  the  miserable  object  which  had  been  so 
unceremoniously  cast  away,  seemed  scarce  worth  a  tear. 
Not  BO  to  her.  He  was  her  husband,  th3  father  of  her 
children,  who  had  not  yet  sinned  away  all  her  early  love,  and 
whose  degradation  and  wretched  end  drew  forth  all  her  com- 
passion, and  united  it  to  the  inextinguishable  affection  of  the 
wife. 

Her  case  excited  great  interest  among  the  passengers,  who, 
as  a  substantial  proof  of  their  sympathy,  raised  a  handsome 
sum  to  defray  her  immediate  expenses  on  arriving  in  a 
strange  land.  When  I  took  her  this  tribute  of  their 
sympathy,  I  asked  her  some  questions  relative  to  her  circum- 
stances and  her  history.  This  she  willingly  gave  me.  It 
was  the  old  familiar  tale — beginning  with  the  golden  days  of 

her  girlish  love ;   the  vows  plighted  before  the  altar  of  the 
9 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 


village  church ;  and  the  little  ivied  cottage,  with  its  woodbine 
trailing  over  the  door,  and  contentment  seated  by  its  humble 
fireside.  There,  she  was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long. 
Then  came  the  temptation — the  fatal  first  glass,  offered  by 
an  old  comrade,  was  soon  followed  by  the  second,  and  this 
sooner  still  by  the  third ;  and,  before  he  was  aware,  he  had 
become  a  confirmed  drinker.  She  saw  it,  and  warned ;  but 
it  was  .too  late.  And  then  came  upon  her  the  long  agony, 
which  no  one  who  has  not  felt  it  knows;  the  days  which 
brought  no  light,  and  the  nights  which  brought  no  rest ;  the 
hours  of  weary  watchfulness ;  the  hopeless  labor  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  watered  by  many  an  unbidden  tear ;  the  slow 
ooze  of  the  heart's  blood,  drop  by  drop,  wrung  forth  by  the 
iron  hand  of  despair !  All  his  cruel  treatment,  and  all  his 
negleot,  she  bore  with  a  woman's  fortitude  ;  and,  woman-like, 
she  returned  caresses  for  every  blow.  At  the  end  of  five 
years,  everything  waa  gone.  The  landlord,  who  had  borne 
with  him  very  patiently,  at  last  informed  him  that,  as  there 
were  so  many  sober  men  out  of  employment,  he  could  not 
afford  to  employ  a  drunkard.  There  was  no  resource  but  the 
workhouse  and  the  beadle  ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  these 
have  terrors,  even  for  the  most  miserable.  Her  brother  had 
left  England  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  was  now  in  a  comfort- 
able "  situation"  in  the  city  of  New  York.  Thither  their 
landlord  offered  to  send  them,  if  they  were  willing  to  go.  This 
kind  offer  they  gladly  accepted ;  and  the  snug  cottage,  and  its 
woodbines,  and  its  once  happy  fireside,  were,  with  many  lin- 
gering looks,  left  behind  them  for  ever.  The  painful  sequel 
»f  her  story  I  have  already  given. 

The  rest  of  my  homeward  passage  was,  as  such  a  passage 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  195 


should  be,  delightful.  The  first  sight  of  the  Neversink  hills, 
rising  above  the  monotonous  waste  of  waters,  threw  me  into 
raptures.  All  day  long  I  sat  on  deck  watching  the  familiar 
objects,  as  they  gradually  came  in  sight ;  and  never  did  home 
seem  half  so  dear  to  me.  The  bay  of  New  York  never  was 
half  so  beautiful ;  and  the  white  cottages  on  the  banks  looked 
like  miniature  pasteboard  creations,  after  being  so  familiar 
with  the  heavy  stone  structures  of  old  England.  The  last 
gasp  of  a  wind  which  had  been  dying  all  day,  had  just  borne 
us  within  the  Narrows,  when  a  steamboat  hove  in  sight  to  take 
us  to  the  city.  We  had  been  telegraphed,  and  all  expected 
friends.  The  poor  widow,  who  had  been  invited,  as  a  mark 
of  respect,  to  take  her  place,  when  she  chose,  on  the  quarter- 
deck, came  to  me,  and  asked  if  I  did  not  think  her  brother 
might  be  on  board  ?  I  told  her  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know 
when  she  was  coming  ;  but  when  the  boat  drew  alongside,  and 
she  looked  hurriedly  over  the  mass  of  strange  faces,  she  ap- 
peared much  disappointed.  I  suggested  to  her  that  she  might 
not  know  him  after  an  absence  of  so  many  years.  "  Oh, 
yes !"  said  she,  hi  surprise.  "  He  was  a  brave  lad,  and  as 
handsome  as  ye  ever  saw.  Poor  fellow  !  the  day  before  he 
went  away,  he  took  out  of  his  earnings,  and  bought  me  this 
ring.  Isn't  it  very  pretty  1"  I  could  not  deny  the  beauty  of 
a  brother's  gift,  plain  as  it  was,  though  it  doubtless  shone  as 
brightly  in  her  eyes  as  if  it  were  set  with  diamonds.  As  the 
news-boats  came  round  us  when  we  entered  the  harbor,  the 
simple-hearted  woman  was  on  the  look-out  for  her  "  brave 
lad"  in  each  of  them,  little  thinking  that  by  this  time  he  was 
grown  into  a  care-worn  man. 

It  was  night-fall  when  the  ship  rounded  to  the  wharf ;  and 


196  THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 

the  officers  of  customs  forLade  us  to  remove  our  luggage  until 
the  next  morning.  Before  I  left  the  vessel,  I  looked  about, 
among  the  hurry  and  confusion,  for  the  friendless  woman  and 
her  children  ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  found  her,  sitting 
in  one  corner  of  the  dark  steerage,  with  one  of  her  childrer 
sleeping  in  her  lap,  and  the  elder  weeping  in  sympathy  with 
her  mother's  grief  by  her  side.  She  had  hitherto  borne  her, 
trials  with  wonderful  composure  ;  but  the  sense  of  her  utter 
forlornness  in  a  strange  land,  with  no  one  to  care  for  her  or 
her  fatherless  children,  was  too  much  for  her  broken  spirit, 
and  she  sobbed  aloud.  I  could  do  nothing  for  her ;  I  could 
only  get  a  promise  from  the  captain  to  see  that  some  temporary 
provision  should  be  made  for  her,  if  no  friends  appeared  ;  and 
I  stepped  ashore  more  thankful,  I  trust,  than  before,  for  the 
home  to  which  I  was  coming. 

Some  will  read  this  simple  narrative,  perhaps,  and  feel  an 
increased  sympathy  for  the  suffering  condition  of  the  English 
poor,  which,  even  under  such  circumstances,  makes  them  seek 
an  asylum  three  thousand  miles  across  the  sea.  Some  will  see 
in  it  only  a  beautiful  exhibition  of  female  constancy  and  for- 
titude. But  there  is  a  deeper  moral  still.  It  only  unfolds 
another  page  in  that  great  record  of  sin,  and  sorrow,  ami 
shame,  caused  by  the  damning  vice  of  intemperance.  It  i& 
but  a  story  of  every-day  life.  The  contrast  between  the 
happy  peasant  girl  in  her  ivied  cottage  and  the  desolate 
widow,  homeless  and  forsaken,  weeping  at  night  over  her 
fatherless  children  in  a  strange  land,  is  a  contrast  that  is  pre- 
sented on  almost  every  page  of  that  accursed  volume.  Many 
a  sad  record,  indeed,  ha<?  been  washed  out  by  the  tears  of 
timely  repentance ;  but  tl.o  volume  is  not  yet  full !  While  the 


NEVER    GIVE    UP.  197 


thirst  for  gain  shall  prompt  man  to  pander  to  his  brother's 
appetites,  and  while  an  absurd  custom  maintains  its  cruel 
tyranny,  there  are  many  dark  pages  yet  to  be  written. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  ine,  next  morning,  on  going  down  te 
the  ship,  to  hear  that  a  well-clad,  honest-looking  fellow  had 
presented  himself  at  the  gangway  as  her  brother,  and  had 
taken  her  to  his  own  home.  What  has  become  of  her  since,  I 
have  no  means  of  knowing ;  but  if  this  book  should  ever  fall 
into  her  hands,  she  may  find  it  hard  to  restrain  a  tear  when 
she  reads  my  Temperance  Story. 


NEVER  give  up  !     There  are  chances  and  changes. 

Helping  the  hopeful  a  hundred  to  one  ; 
And,  through  the  chaos,  high  wisdom  arranges 

Ever  success,  if  you'll  only  hope  on. 

Never  give  up  !  for  the  wisest  is  boldest, 
Knowing  that  Providence  mingles  the  cup ; 

And  of  all  maxims,  the  best  as  the  oldest, 
Is  the  true  watch-word,  Never  give  up. 


198  THE    WILD-WOOD    FLOWER. 


8   WIIB'-WOOB    ££Q 

BY    MRS.    MARY    ARTHUR. 

FAR  down  and  away  in  a  shadowy  place, 

Where  the  sunshine  crept  in  faintly, 
And  the  vines  swept  low  with  a  drooping  grace, 

And  the  leaves  were  still  and  saintly  ; 
Where  the  wind  forgot  its  rushing  tones, 

And  whispered  softly  past, 
Though  out  on  the  hill-side  its  voiee  was  wild, 

And  the  skies  were  overcast: 
There — passing  a  happy  life  away, 

Drinking  the  morning  dew, 
And  making  fragrance  all  the  day, 

A  sweet  wild-wood  flower  grew. 

Through  all  its  life  no  human  eye 

Had  ever  bent  above  it. 
But  it  caught  sweet  glimpses  of  the  sky, 

And  learned  from  these  to  love  it. 
And  when  leaves  were  parted  o'er  its  head, 

The  sun-touch  brought  it  bliss, 
And  it  quivered  down  to  its  glowing  heart, 

At  its  brightest,  faintest  kiss  ; 
For  the  little  flower  had  never  heard 

Of  the  wide  world's  light  and  stir, 
And  she  dreamt  in  her  happy  simple  ioy. 

That  the  sun  was  bright  for  her. 

But  their  came  one  day  to  the  forest  dim, 

A  woodman  stout  and  bustling, 
And  the  pleasant  quiet  seemed  naught  to  him, 

Or  the  wind's  uncertain  rustling  : 


MY    OWN    FIRE    SIDE.  199 


He  peered  about  among  the  vines 

With  a  searching  prying  eye, 
And  he  crushed  the  moss  with  a  heedless  tread, 

And  dashed  the  trailers  by ; 
'Till  he  found  at  last  what  he  came  to  seek, 

A  sapling  straight  and  tall, 
And  the  trunk  he  broke,  with  a  heavy  stroke, 

And  laughed  to  see  it  fall. 

Down — down  with  a  sobbing,  thrilling  crash, 

With  its  treasures  clinging  o'er  it, 
And  light  flew  in  with  a  blinding  flash, 

And  scared  the  shades  before  it . 
A  wide  quick  gleam,  around — above — 

The  little  flower  fell, 
And  she  saw  that  the  sun,  her  own  dear  love, 

Kissed  every  flower  as  well : 
And  the  leaves  pressed  close  on  her  burning  heart, 

And  she  bowed  her  pallid  head, 
And  before  the  day  had  passed  away, 

The  wild-wood  flower  was  dead. 


MY   OWI 


A  GENTLE  form  is  near  me  now  ; 

A  small  white  hand  is  clasped  in  mine  ; 
I  gaze  upon  her  placid  brow, 

And  ask  what  joys  can  equal  thine  : 
A  babe,  whose  beauty's  half  divine, 

In  sleep  his  mother's  eyes  doth  hide  ; 
Where  may  love  seek  a  fitter  shrine 

Than  here  —  my  own  fireside  ? 


200  THE    CHRISTMAS   PARTY. 


BY     KATE    SUTHERLAND. 

CHRISTMAS  had  come  round  again — merry  old  Christmas, 
with  his  smiling  face  and  wealth  of  good  cheer ;  akd  every 
preparation  had  been  made  by  the  Arlingtons  for  their  annual 
Christmas  party,  which  was  always  a  gay  time  for  the  young 
friends  of  the  family. 

Some  hundreds  of  miles  away,  in  a  quiet  New  England 
village,  lived  Mr.  Archer,  an  uncle  of  Mr.  Arlington.  He 
was  a  good  man  ;  but  being  a  minister  of  the  old  school,  and 
well  advanced  in  years,  he  was  strongly  prejudiced  against  all 
"  fashionable  follies,"  as  he  called  nearly  every  form  of  social 
recreation.  Life  was,  in  Ms  eyes,  too  solemn  a  thing  to  be 
wasted  in  any  kind  of  trifling.  In  preaching  and  praying,  hi 
pious  meditation,  and  in  going  about  to  do  good,  much  of  his 
time  was  passed ;  and  another  portion  of  it  was  spent  in 
reflecting  upon,  and  mourning  over,  the  thoughtless  follies  of 
the  world.  He  had  no  time  for  pleasure-taking ;  no  heart  to 
smile  at  the  passing  foibles  or  merry  humors  of  his  felk/w- 
men. 

Such  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Jason  Archer — a  good  man,  but 
with  his  mind  sadly  warped  through  early  prejudices,  long 
confirmed.  For  years  he  had  talked  of  a  journey  to  the  city 
where  his  niece,  to  whom  he  was  much  attached,  resided. 
This  purpose  was  finally  carried  out.  It  was  the  day  before 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  201 

__ . . 

Christmas,  when  Mrs.  Arlington  received  a  letter  from  the 
old  gentleman,  announcing  the  fact  that  she  might  expect  to 
see  him  in  a  few  hours,  as  he  was  about  starting  to  pay  her 
nd  her  family  the  long  intended  visit. 

"  Uncle  Archer  will  be  here  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Arling- 
ton to  her  husband,  as  soon  as  she  met  him  after  receiving  her 
letter. 

"  Indeed !  And  so  the  good  old  gentleman  has  made  a  move 
at  last?" 

"  Yes ;  he's  going  to  eat  his  Christmas-dinner  with  us,  he 


"  So  much  the  better.  The  pleasure  of  meeting  him  will 
increase  the  joy  of  the  occasion." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Arlington,  look- 
ing a  little  serious.  "  It  would  have  been  more  pleasant  to 
have  received  this  visit  at  almost  any  other  time  in  the  year." 

"Why  so?" 

"  You  know  his  strong  prejudices  ?" 

"  Oh,  against  dancing,  and  all  that  1" 

"  Yes ;  he  thinks  it  a  sin  to  dance." 

"  Though  I  do  not." 

"  No  ;  but  it  will  take  away  half  my  pleasure  to  see  him 
grieved  at  anything  that  takes  place  in  my  house." 

"  He'll  not  be  so  weak  as  that." 

"  He  thinks  it  sin,  and  will  be  sadly  pained  at  its  occur- 
rence. Is  it  not  possible  to  omit  dancing  for  once  1" 

"  At  the  party  to-morrow  night  1" 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Arlington  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied — 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing.     We  will  receive  him  with 


202  THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 


true  kindness,  because  we  feel  it  towards  the  good  old  man. 
But  we  must  not  cease  to  do  what  we  know  to  be  right,  thus 
disappointing  and  marring  the  pleasure  of  many,  out  of 
deference  to  a  mere  prejudice  of  education  in  a  single  person. 
When  we  go  to  see  him,  we  do  not  expect  that  any  change 
will  be  made  out  of  deference  to  our  prejudices  or  peculiar 
opinions  ;  and  when  he  comes  to  see  us,  he  must  be  willing  to 
tolerate  what  takes  place  in  our  family,  even  if  it  does  not 
me<jt  his  full  approval.  No,  no;  let  us  not  think  for  a 
moment  of  any  change  in  affairs  on  this  account.  Uncle 
Archer  hasn't  been  present  at  a  gay  party  nor  seen  dancing 
for  almost  half  a  century.  It  may  do  him  good  to  witness  it 
now.  At  any  rate  I  feel  curious  to  see  the  experiment  tried." 

Mrs.  Arlington  still  argued  for  a  little  yielding  in  favor  of 
the  good  parson's  prejudices,  but  her  husband  would  not 
listen  to  such  a  thing  for  a  moment.  Everything,  he  said, 
must  go  on  as  usual. 

"  A  guest  who  comes  into  a  family,"  he  remarked,  "  should 
always  conform  himself  to  the  family  order ;  then  there  is  no 
reaction  upon  him,  and  all  are  comfortable  and  happy.  He  is 
not  felt  as  a  thing  foreign  and  incongruous,  but  as  homogene- 
ous. To  break  up  the  usual  order,  and  to  bend  all  to  meet 
his  personal  prejudices  and  peculiarities,  is  only  to  so  disturb 
the  family  sphere  as  to  make  it  actually  repellent.  He  is 
then  felt  as  an  unassimilated  foreign  body,  and  all  secretly 
desire  his  removal." 

"  But  something  is  due  to  old  age !"  urged  Mrs.  Arlington. 

"  Yes  ;  much.  But,  if  age  have  not  softened  a  man's 
prejudices  against  a  thing  good  in  itself,  I  doubt  very  much  if 
a  deference  to  his  prejudice,  such  as  you  propose,  will  in  th« 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  203 

least  benefit  liim.  Better  let  him  come  in  contact  with  a 
happy  circle,  exhilarated  by  music  and  dancing;  and  the 
chances  are,  that  his  heart  will  melt  in  the  scene  rather  than 
grow  colder  and  harder.  The  fact  is,  as  I  think  of  it  more 
and  more,  the  better  pleased  am  I  that  uncle  Archer  is 
coming  just  at  this  time." 

But  Mrs.  Arlington  felt  troubled  about  the  matter.  Early 
on  Christmas  morning  the  old  gentleman  arrived,  and  was 
welcomed  with  sincere  affection  by  every  member  of  the 
family.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arlington  had  a  daughter,  named 
Grace,  who  was  just  entering  her  eighteenth  year.  She  was 
gentle  and  affectionate  in  disposition,  and  drew  to  the  side  of 
uncle  Archer  in  a  way  that  touched  the  old  man's  feelings. 
He  had  not  seen  her  before  this,  since  she  was  a  little  girl ; 
and  now,  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  of  her  as  she  sat  by 
him,  or  moved  about  the  room  in  his  presence. 

"What  a  dear  girl  that  is  !"  was  his  remark  to  her  mother 
many  times  during  the  day. 

"  She's  a  good  girl,"  would  simply  reply  Mrs.  Arlington, 
speaking  almost  without  thought.  Grace  was  a  good  girl ; 
her  mother  felt  this,  and  from  her  heart  her  lips  found 
utterance. 

It  seemed,  all  through  the  day,  that  Grace  could  not  do 
enough  for  the  old  man's  comfort.  Once  she  drew  him  intc 
her  room,  as  he  was  passing  her  door,  to  show  him  some 
pictures  that  she  had  painted.  As  he  sat  looking  at  them,  he 
noticed  a  small,  handsomely  bound  Bible  on  her  table. 
Taking  it  up,  he  said — 

"  Do  you  read  this,  Grace?" 

"  O  yes,"  she  replied ;  "  every  day."     And  there  was  such 


204  THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 

a  light  of  goodness  in  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  up  into  his  face, 
that  Mr.  Archer  felt,  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  the 
countenance  of  an  angel  was  before  him. 

"  Why  do  you  read  it?"  he  continued,  after  a  pause. 

"  It  teaches  us  the  way  to  heaven,"  said  Grace. 

"  And  you  are  trying  to  live  for  heaven?" 

"  I  try  to  shun  all  evil  as  sin.     Can  I  do  more  ?" 

All  the  minister's  creeds  and  doctrines,  and  confessions  of 
faith,  which  he  had  ever  considered  the  foundations  upon 
which  Christian  life  was  to  be  builded,  seemed,  for  a  moment 
or  two,  useless  lumber  before  the  simple  creed  of  this  loving, 
pure-hearted  maiden.  To  seek  to  disturb  this  state  of  inno- 
cence and  obedience  by  moody  polemics,  he  felt,  instinctively, 
to  be  wrong. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  was  his  half  abstracted  reply ;  perhaps 
not.  Yes,  yes ;  shun  what  is  evil,  and  the  Lord  will  adjoin 
the  good." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  she  is  a  good  girl,  as  her  mother  says,"  was 
frequently  repeated  by  uncle  Archer  during  the  day,  when  he 
would  think  of  Grace. 

Evening  came,  and  young  and  old  began  to  gather  in  the 
parlors.  The  minister  was  introduced  to  one  and  another,  as 
they  arrived,  and  was  much  gratified  with  the  respect  and 
attention  shown  to  him  by  all.  Grace  soon  drew  around  him 
three  or  four  of  her  young  friends,  who  listened  to  what  he 
had  to  say  with  an  interest  that  gratified  his  feelings. 
Nothing  had  been  said  to  Grace  of  her  uncle's  prejudice 
against  dancing ;  she  was,  therefore,  no  little  surprised  to  see 
the  sudden  change  in  his  manner,  when  she  said  to  a  young 
lady  in  the  group  around  him — 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  205 

"  Come !  you  must  play  some  cotillons  for  us.  We're 
going  to  have  a  dance." 

After  going  with  the  young  lady  to  the  piano,  and  opening 
it  for  her,  Grace  went  back  to  her  uncle,  whose  face  she 
found  deeply  clouded. 

"  Aint  you  well,  uncle  ?"  she  asked,  affectionately. 

"  0  yes,  child,  I  am  well  enough  in  body,"  was  replied. 

"  But  something  troubles  you,  uncle — what  is  if?" 

By  this  time  a  number  of  couples  were  on  the  floor,  and  at 
the  moment  a  young  man  came  up  to  Grace,  and  said — 

"  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  dancing  with  you  this 
evening  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  first  set,"  replied  Grace ;  "  but  I  will  consider 
myself  engaged  for  the  second,  unless  you  can  find  a  more 
agreeable  partner." 

"  Do  you  dance,  then  ?"  asked  uncle  Archer,  gravely,  after 
the  young  man  had  turned  away. 

"  Dance  1"  Grace  was  in  doubt  whether  she  had  clearly 
understood  him. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Certainly  I  do,  uncle.  You  don't  think  there  is  harm 
in  dancing?" 

"  I  do,  my  child.  And,  I  am  sure  that,  after  what  you 
said  about  reading  your  Bible  and  trying  to  live  for  heaven, 
your  admission  greatly  surprises  me.  Religion  and  dancing ! 
How  can  they  have  an  aifinity  1" 

"  Good  and  evil  can  have  no  affinity,"  said  Grace,  in  reply 
to  this  remark.  "  Evil,  I  have  always  understood  to  be  in  a 
purpose  to  do  wrong.  Now,  I  can  dance  with  a  good 
purpose ;  and,  surely,  then,  dancing  cannot  be  evil  to  me." 


206 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 


"  Dance  with  a  good  purpose !  How  can  you  do  that,  mj 
dear?" 

"  I  have  often  danced  with  the  sole  end  of  contributing  my 
share  to  the  general  enjoyment  of  a  company." 

"  Strange  enjoyment !"  sighed  the  old  parson. 

"  The  timing  of  steps,  and  the  orderly  movement  of  the 
body  in  concert  with  musical  harmonies,  often  affects  the 
mind  with  exquisite  delight,  uncle.  I  have  enjoyed  this  over 
and  over  again,  and  have  felt  better  and  happier  afterwards." 

"  Child !  child  !"  replied  the  old  man ;  "  how  it  grieves  me 
to  hear  you  say  this." 

"  If  there  is  sin  in  dancing,  uncle,"  said  Grace,  seriously, 
"  tell  me  wherein  it  lies.  Look  at  the  countenances  of  those 
now  on  the  floor ;  do  they  express  evil  or  good  affection  ? — 
here,  as  I  have  been  taught,  lies  the  sin." 

"  It  is  a  foolish  waste  of  time,"  returned  the  old  man ;  "  a 
foolish  waste  of  time ;  and  it  is  an  evil  thing  to  waste  the 
precious  time  that  God  has  given  to  us." 

"  We  cannot  always  work  or  read.  Both  mind  and  body 
become  wearied.' 

"  Then  we  have  time  for  meditation." 

"  But  even  thought  will  grow  burdensome  at  times,  and  the 
mind  sink  into  listlessness  and  inactivity.  Then  we  need 
recreation,  in  order  that  we  may  afterwards  both  work  and 
think  better.  Music  and  dancing,  in  which  mind  and 
body  find  an  innocent  delight,  effect  such  a  recreation. 
I  know  it  is  so  in  my  case ;  and  I  know  it  is  so  in  the 
case  of  others.  You  do  not  say  that  dancing  is  a  thing  evil 
in  itself?" 

"No."     This  was  admitted  rather  reluctantly. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PART*.  207 

"  Then  if  it  be  made  to  serve  a  good  end,  it  is  a  good 
thing." 

"But  it  is  often  made  to  serve  evil,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Then  it  is  an  evil  thing,"  promptly  answered  Grace ; 
"  and  so  every  good  gift  of  heaven  may  be  made  an  evil  thing 
to  those  who  use  it  for  an  evil  purpose.  You  know  it  is  said 
that  a  spider  extracts  poison  from  the  same  flower  where  the 
bee  gets  honey.  The  deadly  nightshade  draws  life  from  the 
same  rain  and  sunshine  that  nourishes  and  matures  the 
wheat,  from  which  our  bread  is  made.  It  is  the  evil  purpose, 
Uncle,  that  makes  a  thing  evil." 

"  Could  you  pray  on  going  to  bed,  after  an  evening  spent  in 
dancing?"  asked  the  old  man,  confident  that  he  had  put  a 
question  that  would  clearly  show  his  niece  her  error.  To  his 
surprise,  Grace  answered,  with  a  beautiful  smile  on  her  face — 

"  0  yes ;  and  I  have  so  prayed,  many  and  many  a  time ; 
not  failing  to  return  thanks  for  the  pleasure  I  had  been 
permitted  to  enjoy." 

"  Thanks  for  mere  carnal  pleasure !" 

"  All  things  are  good  that  are  filled  with  good  affections," 
said  Grace.  "  We  are  in  a  natural  world,  where  all  pleasure 
and  pain  affect  us  in  the  natural  degree  most  sensibly.  We 
must  come  down,  that  we  may  go  up.  We  must  let  our 
natural  joy  and  gladness  have  free  course,  innocently,  that 
they  may  be  changed  into  a  joy  that  is  higher  and  spiritual. 
Is  it  not  so,  uncle?" 

Now,  the  old  man  had  not  expected  to  find  such  a  nice  head 
on  so  young  a  body ;  nor  did  he  expect  to  be  called  upon  to 
answer  a  question,  which  came  in  a  form  that  he  was  not 
prepared  either  to  negative  or  affirm.  He  had  put  all  natural 


208  THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 


pleasures  under  the  ban,  as  flowing  from  the  carnal  mind; 
and,  therefore,  evil.  As  to  filling  natural  pleasures  witn 
spiritual  life,  that  was  a  new  position  in  theology.  He  had 
preached  against  natural  pleasures  as  evil,  and,  therefore,  to 
be  abandoned  by  all  who  would  lead  a  heavenly  life.  Before 
he  could  collect  his  thoughts  for  an  answer  satisfactory  to 
himself,  two  or  three  ladies  gathered  around  them,  and  he 
discreetly  forebore  to  make  any  further  remarks  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  he  felt,  as  may  be  supposed,  very  uncomfortable. 

After  the  first  set  was  danced,  one  of  the  young  ladies  who 
had  been  on  the  floor,  and  who  had  previously  been  introduced 
to  the  old  gentleman  by  Grace,  came,  with  color  heightened 
from  excitement,  and  her  beautiful  face  in  a  glow  of  pleasure, 
and  sat  down  by  his  side.  Mr.  Archer  would  have  received 
her  with  becoming  gravity,  had  it  been  in  his  power  to.  do  so ; 
but  the  smile  on  her  face  was  so  innocent,  and  she  bent 
towards  him  so  kindly  and  affectionately,  that  he  could  not 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  meet  her  with  even  a  silent  reproof. 
This  young  lady  was  really  charming  his  ear,  when  a  gentle- 
man came  up  to  her,  and  said — 

"  Anna,  I  want  you  to  dance  with  me. 

"  With  pleasure,"  replied  the  girl.  "  You  will  excuse  me 
for  awhile,  Mr.  Archer,"  said  she,  and  she  was  about  rising 
as  she  spoke,  but  the  old  man  placed  his  hand  upon  her  arm, 
and  gently  detained  her. 

"  You're  not  going  to  leave  me?" 

"  No,  not  if  my  company  will  give  you  any  pleasure," 
replied  the  young  girl,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"  Please  excuse  me."  This  she  addressed  to  the  person 
who  had  asked  her  to  dance.  He  bowed,  and  turned  away. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  209 

"  I  am  glad  to  keep  you  by  my  side,"  said  Mr.  Archer, 
with  some  seriousness  in  his  manner. 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  stay  here,"  was  promptly  answered, 
"if  my  company  will  give  you  any  pleasure.  It  does  me 
good  to  contribute  to  others'  happiness." 

The  old  man  was  touched  by  this  reply,  for  he  felt  that  it 
was  from  the  heart.  It  sounded  strangely  to  his  ears  from 
the  lips  of  one  who  had  just  been  whirling  in  the  mazy  dance. 

"  There  is  no  real  pleasure  in  anything  selfish,"  he 
remarked.  "  Yes,  you  say  truly,  it  does  us  good  to  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  of  others." 

"  For  this  reason,"  said  Anna,  "  I  like  dancing  as  a  social 
recreation.  It  is  a  mutual  pleasure.  We  give  and  receive 
enjoyment." 

The  old  minister's  face  grew  serious. 

"  I  have  been  to  three  or  four  parties,"  continued  the 
young  girl,  "  where  dancing  was  excluded,  under  some  strange 
idea  that  it  was  wrong  ;  and  I  must  say,  that  so  much  evil- 
speaking  and  censoriousness  it  has  never  been  my  lot  to 
encounter  in  any  company.  The  time,  instead  of  being 
improved  as  a  season  of  mental  and  bodily  recreation,  was 
worse  than  wasted.  I  know  that  I  was  worse  instead  of 
better  on  returning  from  each  of  these  companies,  for  I 
insensibly  fell  into  the  prevailing  spirit." 

"  That  was  very  bad,  certainly,"  remarked  Mr.  Archer, 
before  whose  mind  arose  some  pictures  of  social  gatherings,  in 
which  had  prevailed  the  very  spirit  condemned  by  his  young 
companion.  "But  I  don't  see  how  you  are  going  to  make 
dancing  a  sovereign  remedy  for  the  evil." 

"  It  is  not  a  sovereign  remedy,"  was  answered,  "  but  it  is  a 


210  THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 

concert  of  feeling  and  action,  in  wliich  the  mind  is  ex- 
hilarated, and  in  which  a  mutual  good-will  is  produced.  You 
cannot  dance  without  being  pleased,  to  a  greater  or  less 
extent,  with  your  partners  on  the  floor.  Often  and  often 
have  I  had  a  prejudice  against  persons  wear  off  as  we  moved 
together  in  the  dances,  and  I  have  afterwards  discovered  in 
them  good  qualities  to  which  I  was  before  blinded." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Grace  to  the  old  man,  just  at  this  moment, 
bending  to  his  ear  as  she  spoke,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers, 
— "  Come  !  I  want  to  show  you  something." 

Grace  drew  him  into  the  adjoining  parlor,  where  another 
set  was  on  the  floor.  Two  children,  her  younger  brother  and 
sister,  were  in  it. 

"  Now,  just  look  at  Ada  and  Willy,"  whispered  Grace  in 
his  ear,  as  she  brought  him  in  view  of  the  young  dancers. 
Ada  was  a  lovely  child,  and  the  old  uncle's  heart  had  already 
taken  her  in.  She  was  a  graceful  little  dancer,  and  moved  in 
the  figures  with  the  lightness  of  a  fairy.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight,  and  in  the  face  of  all  the  prejudices,  which  half  a 
century  had  worn  into  him,  he  felt  that  it  was  beautiful.  As 
he  looked  upon  it,  he  could  keep  the  dimness  from  his  eyes 
only  by  a  strong  effort. 

"  Is  there  evil  in  that,  uncle  ?"  asked  Grace,  drawing  her 
arm  within  that  of  the  old  man's. 

"  Is  it  good  V  he  replied. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  good,"  said  Grace,  emphatically,  as  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his. 

Mr.  Archer  did  not  gainsay  her  words.  He,  at  least,  felt 
that  it  was  not  evil,  though  he  could  not  admit  that  it  was 
good. 


THE    CHRISTMAS   PARTY.  211 

Spite  of  the  dancing,  which  soon  ceased  to  offend  the  good 
old  man,  he  passed  a  pleasant  evening.  Perhaps,  he  enjoyed 
the  Christmas  party  as  much  as  any  one  there. 

Nothing  was  said,  on  the  next  day,  by  any  one,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  dancing;  though  Mr.  Archer,  especially,  thought  a 
great  deal  about  the  matter.  Some  ideas  had  come  into  his 
mind  that  were  new  there,  and  he  was  pondering  them 
attentively.  On  the  third  day  of  his  arrival,  he  had  a  severe 
attack  of  rheumatism,  from  which  he  suffered  great  pain, 
besides  a  confinement  to  his  room  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 
During  that  time,  the  untiring  devotion  and  tender  solicitude 
of  Grace,  touched  the  old  man's  heart  deeply.  When  the 
pain  had  sufficiently  abated  to  let  his  mind  attain  composure, 
she  sought  to  interest  him  in  various  ways.  Sometimes  she 
would  read  to  him  by  the  hour ;  sometimes  she  would  enter- 
tain him  with  cheerful  conversation ;  and  sometimes  she  would 
bring  in  one  or  two  of  her  young  friends,  whom  he  had  met  at 
the  Christmas  party.  With  these,  he  had  more  than  one 
discussion,  in  his  sick  room,  on  the  subject  of  dancing,  and 
the  old  minister  found  these  gay  young  girls  rather  more  than 
a  match  for  him.  During  a  discussion  of  this  kind,  Grace 
left  the  room.  In  her  absence  one  of  her  companions  said  to 
him — 

"  Grace  is  a  good  girl." 

A  quick  light  went  over  the  old  man's  countenance ;  and  he 
replied,  with  evident  feeling — 

"Good  1  Yes;  I  look  at  her,  sometimes,  and  think  her 
almost  an  angel." 

tl  She  dances." 

The  old  man  sighed. 


212  THE    CHRISTMAS    PARTY. 

"  She  is  a  Christian." 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  such  in  the  world,"  said  he. 
unhesitatingly. 

"  And  yet  she  dances." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  turning  with  an 
affectionate  smile  towards  his  young  interlocutor,  "  don't  take 
such  an  advantage  of  me  in  the  argument." 

"  Then  it  is  settled,"  was  continued,  in  triumph,  "  that  if 
dancing  is  not  a  Christian  grace,  a  maiden  may  dance  and  yet 
be  a  Christian?" 

"  God  bless  you,  and  keep  you  from  all  the  evil  of  the 
world,"  said  the  old  man,  fervently,  as  he  took  the  young 
girl's  hand  and  pressed  it  between  his  own.  "  It  may  be  all 
right !  it  may  be  all  right !'" 

Grace  came  back  at  the  moment,  and  he  ceased  speaking. 

From  that  time  the  venerable  minister  said  no  more  on  the 
subject,  and  it  is  but  fair  to  believe,  that  when  he  returned 
home  he  had  very  serious  doubts  in  regard  to  the  sin  of 
dancing,  which  had  once  been  as  fairly  held  as  if  it  had  been 
an  article  hi  the  Confession  of  Faith. 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  213 


OR,    THE    OLD    POCKET    PISTOL 

BY     BRO.     PRINCE. 

4  You  go  on  your  visit  to-day,  brother  Frank,  I  under- 
stand, and  I  want  the  keepsake  you  promised  me ;"  said 
Ann  Linden,  a  bright-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  girl  of  sixteen, 
to  her  brother,  who  was  fixing  a  pocket  pistol,  while  around 
him  lay  a  pair  of  ball-moulds,  a  shot-pouch,  and  a  powder- 
flask.  "But  0,  mercy!  what  are  you  doing  1  You  are 
not  going  to  take  that  old  pistol  with  you  surely,  dear,  dear 
brother  1 " 

"  Yes,  but  I  am,  sis.,"  replied  he.  "  This  old  pistol,  as 
you  call  it,  I  expect  will  be  the  means  of  making  my  for- 
tune." 

"  Be  the  means  of  your  death,  more  likely,  I  am  afraid," 
retorted  she,  sorrowfully.  "  O,  don't  take  it  with  you, 
brother — some  accident  may  happen ;  it  may  burst,  or  go 
off  and  kill  you." 

Frank  Linden  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  up  at  his 
sister,  who  stood  by  his  side,  and  he  saw  tears  standing  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Why,  Ann ! "  said  he,  "  what  dangers  you.  imagine  ! 
You  need  not  fear, — the  old  pistol  will  never  do  any  hurt  to 


214  THE      STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

me.  I  have  not  yet  loaded  it  or  fired  it ;  hut  thought  I 
might,  when  I  got  to  my  uncle's  in  the  country.  But  here, 
you  may  take  a  lock  of  my  hair  for  the  keepsake,  if  you  are 
afraid  you  will  never  see  me  again  ;  "  and  he  laughingly 
held  his  head  towards  her. 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  never  see  you  again,"  re- 
plied Ann;  "but,  brother,  that  would  be  a  choice  keep- 
sake," and  she  took  her  scissors,  which  hung  by  a  steel 
chain  from  her  belt,  and  clipped  off  a  lock  of  Frank's  hair, 
the  longest  she  could  find.  "  There,"  said  she,  "  I  will 
keep  that  until  you  get  married  and  make  your  fortune,  and 
then  give  it  to  your  wife,  if  that  old  pistol  does  not  make  a 
cripple  of  you  and  prevent  such  an  event.  I  do  wish  you 
would  throw  the  useless,  dangerous  instrument  away." 

"  Ann,  I  tell  you  this  old  pocket  pistol  will  be  the  means 
of  affording  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  the  instru- 
ment, perhaps,  of  making  my  fortune.  Remember,  sis., 
what  I  tell  you ;"  and  he  continued  his  work  of  cleaning 
and  fixing  it. 

His  sister  turned  and  left  him,  saying  she  could  not  con- 
ceive what  pleasure  could  be  derived  from  an  old  pocket 
pistol ;  nor  any  prospect  of  its  being  the  means  of  making 
his  fortune,  or  any  other  person's. 

Frank  and  Ann  Linden  were  the  son  and  daughter  of  a 
respectable  upholsterer  in  New  York,  who,  though  not  rich, 
yet  was  well  off  and  doing  a  comfortable  business.  Frank 
was  about  twenty  years  of  age — had  graduated  from  col- 
lege, and,  ere  he  commenced  the  study  of  law,  a  profession 
he  intended  to  pursue,  was  going  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in 


THE     STRAWBERRY      GIRL.  215 

the  country,  at  his  uncle's,  living  in  the  interior,  near  the 
Pennsylvania  line.  Fishing,  hunting  and  rambling  through 
woods  and  fields,  he  was  not  much  accustomed  to ;  yet  he 
anticipated  fine  sport,  and  left  home  in  goods  spirits  for  an 
absence  of  four  weeks. 

The  old  uncle  whom  he  visited  had  no  children,  and  had 
been  a  widower  for  some  ten  or  twelve  years,  having  with 
him,  as  housekeeper,  a  widowed  sister  of  his  deceased  wife, 
a  Mrs.  Jones,  who  had  one  daughter  about  the  same  age  of 
Frank,  named  Elsie  Jones. 

The  old  gentleman,  Frank's  uncle,  received  him  with  all 
the  hearty  welcome  of  a  man  fond  of  his  relations,  and 
more  particularly  so,  as  Frank  was  a  favorite,  being  named 
after  him.  He  had  not  seen  him  for  some  years,  and  was 
surprised  at  viewing  a  handsome,  stout-built  young  man, 
large  enough,  as  he  said,  to  lift  a  barrel  of  cider  into  the 
tail  of  a  cart,  or  to  mow  all  day ;  and  he  chuckled  and 
laughed,  as  he  turned  him  round,  exclaiming,  "  Frank,  my 
boy,  you  are  stout  enough  for  a  fanner  !  " 

"  No  doubt  I  am,  uncle,"  replied  Frank,  "  and  you  will 
find  I  can  do  justice  to  farmer's  fare,  likewise  ;"  as  just  at 
that  minute  Mrs.  Jones  announced  that  dinner  was  ready, 
and  he  followed  his  uncle  to  the  table,  where  a  large  dish  of 
beef  and  pork,  with  sundry  kinds  of  vegetables,  such  as 
turnips,  potatoes,  and  cabbage,  were  smoking  by  its  side 

The  uncle  had  no  fault  to  find  with  his  nephew  for  not 
doing  ample  justice  to  his  table,  as  a  day  and  a  night's  ride 
over  a  rough  road,  and  several  hours'  fasting,  had,  though 
he  was  somewhat  fatigued,  given  him  a  fine  appetite. 


216  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

After  dinner,  the  old  gentleman  retired  and  took  a  nap, 
and  Frank  sauntered  off  into  the  fields,  and  from  thence 
strayed  to  a  piece  of  woodland,  through  which  murmured  a 
purling  hrook,  where,  on  the  margin,  he  seated  himself, 
watching  the  little  ripples  of  the  stream,  and  noticed  occa- 
sionally the  darting  glimpse  of  a  speckled  trout,  which 
seemed  to  catch  his  shadow,  and  then  vanish  from  his  sight. 

For  some  time  he  amused  himself  in  looking  at  the 
stream,  and  in  witnessing  also  the  gambols  of  a  gray  squir 
rel,  that  alternately  leaped  from  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree 
that  was  near,  and  then  ascended  the  body  of  one  that  was 
standing,  and  after  an  absence  of  a  moment,  would  be  seen 
again  on  the  fallen  tree.  He  thought  of  his  pocket  pistol, 
and  wished  he  had  brought  it  with  him,  imagining  he  might 
shoot  the  nimble  animal.  At  length  he  arose,  and,  crossing 
the  brook,  wandered  through  the  woods  until  he  came  to  a 
large  tract  of  cleared  land,  at  the  extremity  of  his  uncle's 
domains. 

As  he  leaped  from  a  fence  into  an  open  field,  he  heard  a 
sudden  scream,  when,  looking  forward,  he  saw  a  young 
girl,  with  her  hair  streaming  from  her  head  and  her  bonnet 
hanging  from  her  neck,  running  as  if  for  life,  uttering  loud, 
piercing  cries ;  in  one  hand  she  held  a  basket,  and  in  the 
other  a  stout  stick, — behind  her,  from  the  distance  he  was 
off,  he  could  see  nothing.  Her  screams,  however,  aroused 
him,  and  he  sprang  forward  to  meet  her.  As  they  neared 
each  other,  he  discovered  an  enormous  black  snake,  of  the 
racer  breed,  with  his  head  erect;  he  had  a  white  ring 
around  his  neck,  and  was  close  upon  her.  The  snake 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  217 

seemed  to  move  with  velocity,  about  one-third  of  its  length 
erect  above  the  ground.  Its  eyes  shone  like  two  sparks  of 
fire,  and  with  mouth  open  and  forked  tongue  protruded,  it 
seemed  intent  on  its  victim. 

Frank  had  never  seer  a  snake  of  this  species  before ;  but 
he  knew  their  bite  was  harmless,  yet  their  powerful  coil 
dangerous.  The  young  girl,  who,  he  thought,  might  be 
about  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  appeared  frightened 
almost  to  distraction.  She  was  pale  and  colorless,  and 
seemed  ready  to  drop  to  the  earth,  as  he  came  up  and 
sprang  between  her  and  the  snake,  seizing  the  stick  from 
her  hand  as  he  passed.  A  few  feet  only  separated  the  girl 
from  the  swift  serpent  as  he  jumped  between  them  ;  and  ere 
he  was  aware  of  it,  the  reptile  was  coiling  around  one  of 
his  legs,  and  winding  its  way  up  his  body. 

Frank  Linden  was  unused  to  fear,  and  in  imagination 
always  thought  he  could  face  anything ;  yet  a  cold  kind  of 
feeling  ran  over  him  for  an  instant,  at  the  discovery  that  the 
snake  was  coiling  around  him ;  but  he  recovered  himself  in 
a  moment,  and  boldly  seized  the  serpent  below  the  head 
with  one  hand,  with  a  view  of  destroying  it  in  his  nervous 
grasp.  On  seizing  it,  the  snake  instantly  uncoiled  itself 
from  his  leg,  and  in  spite  of  his  exertions  gradually  worked 
itself  through  his  firm  grasp,  by  immediately  coiling  its 
lower  part  around  his  arm,  winding  its  folds  so  tight  as  to 
pain  him.  Throwing  down  his  stick,  in  vain  he  strove  to 
tear  the  reptile  from  his  arm  with  his  other  hand  ;  for  its 
tenacious  grasp  baffled  all  his  strength  in  the  effort. 

As  Frank  sprang  past  the  girl,  sfce  had  stopped  and 
10 


218  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

turned  round,  and  stood  panting  from  the  exertion  of  run- 
ning, gazing,  with  horror  depicted  on  her  countenance,  at  the 
sight  of  the  snake  writhing  and  struggling  in  his  iron  grasp. 
Finding  he  could  not  tear  it  from  his  arm,  Frank  felt  for 
his  pocket-knife  ;  but  with  one  hand  he  could  not  open  the 
blade,  and  he  held  it  towards  her,  requesting  that  she  would 
open  it. 

Trembling,  she  approached,  and  putting  her  basket  on 
the  ground,  took  the  knife  from  his  hand  and  opened 
the  blade.  In  the  mean  time,  Frank  grasped  with  both 
hands  the  snake,  that  was  gradually  slipping  through  his 
clutch. 

The  young  girl's  terror  in  a  measure  seemed  to  abato 
now  ;  and  as  he  held  the  reptile  with  both  hands,  he  di- 
rected her  to  cut  it  from  his  arm,  when  in  an  instant  she 
inserted  the  blade  of  the  knife  between  one  or  two  of  the 
coils,  at  once  severing  the  snake  into  three  parts,  which 
relaxed  its  tenacity,  and  fell  to  the  ground,  when  Frank 
threw  the  part  remaining  in  his  hands  also  to  the  earth, 
and  soon  dispatched  all  remains  of  life  in  the  dissevered 
pieces. 

He  had  now  time  to  look  at  the  girl,  to  whose  rescue  from 
a  horrid  death,  perhaps,  he  had  so  fortunately  arrived.  She 
was  neatly  dressed  in  a  Lome-made  striped  frock,  fitted  to 
her  light,  graceful  form,  leaving  her  neck  bare,  except  what 
was  covered  by  the  cape  of  her  sun-bonnet,  which  was  made 
of  the  same  material  with  her  frock.  Her  dark,  expressive 
eyes  now  glistened  with  pleasure,  as  he  stepped  towards  her 
and  took  up  her  basket,  which  he  discovered  was  nearly 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  219 

full  of  delicious-looking  strawberries,  which  she  had  been 
gathering. 

Without  alluding  to  the  recent  scene,  he  smilingly  com- 
plimented her  on  her  success  in  gathering  so  many  luxurious 
berries,  and  taking  three  or  four  out,  he  ate  them,  praising 
their  flavor.  Still  holding  her  basket,  he  then  civilly  re- 
quested that  he  might  carry  it,  and  see  her  safe  to  where 
she  was  going. 

The  crimson  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck  vied  with 
the  color  of  the  fruit  she  had  been  picking,  as  she  curt- 
sied and  thanked  him,  modestly  yet  timidly  replying  that 
she  was  so  frightened  that  company  home  would  be  a  favor ; 
and  Frank  took  the  artless  girl's  arm,  put  it  within  his, 
and  they  crossed  the  field  together  towards  the  road  that 
bounded  the  farm  of  his  uncle. 

"  Where  did  you  gather  these  delicious  berries,  Miss  ?" 
asked  he ;  "  pardon  me,  I  do  not  know  your  name,  or  I 
should  address  you  by  it." 

"Julia  Sefton  is  my  name,"  she  quickly  replied.  "  We 
live  a  short  distance  down  the  road, — the  strawberries  I 
gathered  in  the  field  adjoining  the  one  you  saw  me  in, 
which  I  was  crossing,  intending  to  carry  them  to  Elsie 
Jones,  for  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Linden,  who,  she  told  me,  he 
expected  this  evening  from  New  York,  to  pay  him  a  visit. 
They  are  quite  a  treat  to  people  from  the  city." 

"Indeed!  Then,  Miss  Julia,  these  strawberries  were 
btended  for  me  ;  for  my  name  is  Frank  Linden,  and  I  am 
the  nephew  of  Mr.  Linden,  to  whose  house  you  were  going." 

Julia  blushed  and  looked  down,  casting  a  side  glance  at 


220  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

him,  rather  pleased,  though  a  little  confused  at  what  she 
had  said  ;  and  she  tried  to  mend  the  matter,  by  saying  that 
Elsie  Jones  was  going  with  her, — hut  when  she  called  in 
the  morning  she  could  not  go,  and  begged  of  her  to  bring 
some,  if  she  gathered  any. 

Frank  laughed,  and  told  her  she  could  go  with  them  yet 
to  his  uncle's — saying  he  should  certainly  now  claim  a  part 
of  her  berries. 

"  And  cannot  you  eat  them  at  my  mother's  just  as  well  1 
We  have  some  maple-sugar  and  sweet  cream ;  and  mother, 
I  know,  will  not  be  offended  at  my  bringing  you  there,  see- 
ing you  have  been  so  kind  to  me.  You  will  go,  won't  you, 
Mr.  Linden?"  asked  she,  looking  earnestly  and  innocently 
up  into  his  face. 

'•'  Call  me  Frank  Linden,  Julia !  I  am  not  old  enough 
to  be  a  Mr.  yet.  Yes,  I  will  go  to  your  mother's  with  you  ; 
but  you  need  not  tell  her  about  the  snake,  because  I  am 
afraid  she  will  not  let  you  go  after  berries  again,"  said  he, 
smiling  at  her  earnest  tender  of  hospitality  to  him. 

"  O  never  fear  that,  Mr.  Frank  !"  quickly  returned 
she, — "  mother  will  let  me  go ;"  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure. 

"  There !  there  is  Mr.  again  !  Do  call  me  plain  Frank, 
and  leave  the  Mr.  off!"  exclaimed  he,  looking  coaxingly  at 
her. 

"  Well,  then,  Frank !  Frank  Linden  !  which  shall  I  call 
you? — tell  me?"  asked  she;  and  for  the  first  time  her 
shrill  laugh  rang  loud  over  the  fields.  "  It  is  so  odd  to  call 
«i  man  only  just  by  his  plain,  first  name  !" 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  221 

"  But  Julia,"  said  he,  "  I  am  no  man  yet,  and  plain 
Frank  suits  me  best.  My  sister  Ann  always  calls  me  so  ; 
and  now  I  am  away  from  home,  I  want  some  one  to  remind 
me  of  her.  I  think  your  red  cheeks  and  your  eyes  resemble 
hers  very  much." 

"  Do  they  1"  answered  she, "  then  I  will  call  you  Frank ;" 
and  she  blushed,  she  knew  not  why,  as  they  passed  along. 

Julia  was  pretty,  and  the  excitement  of  the  scene  she 
had  passed  through,  and  the  exercise  of  running,  together 
with  the  warm  weather,  had  given  an  additional  color  to 
her  fine-formed  countenance,  which,  when  she  was  smiling, 
showed  two  rows  of  regular,  beautiful  white  teeth,  peeping 
from  between  a  pair  of  cherry  lips,  while  a  slight  dimple 
danced  on  one  of  her  fresh  blooming  cheeks. 

Frank,  as  he  gazed  at  her,  was  completely  struck  with 
surprise  at  seeing  so  much  real  beauty  in  the  country.  He 
thought  his  sister  handsome ;  but  Julia  '"as  more  pretty, 
just  then,  in  his  eyes.  As  they  walked  on,  they  talked  of 
wild-flowers  and  birds,  honey-bees  and  grey  squirrels,  until 
they  came  to  the  fence  by  the  road,  where  they  could  see 
the  little  white  house,  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Sefton,  Julia's 
mother.  It  was  partly  hid  by  several  large  trees,  but  one 
white  end  was  peeping  out  through  the  foliage.  Here 
Frank  was  going  to  set  the  basket  down  and  help  Julia  over 
the  fence  ;  but  she  withdrew  her  arm  from  his,  and  step- 
ping on  a  piece  of  board  that  rested  on  one  of  the  lower 
rails,  lightly  sprang  over  into  the  road,  and  laughingly 
reached  out  her  hand,  telling  him  she  would  help  him  over. 
He  declined  her  gallantry,  however,  but  handed  her  the 


222  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

basket  of  strawberries,  and  clambered  over,  evidently  evin- 
cing that  he  was  a  novice  at  the  leaping  of  fences  in  tho 
country. 

A  moment  or  two  now  brought  them  to  Mrs.  Sefton'a 
house  ;  and  Julia,  pushing  open  the  front  door,  took  Frank 
into  the  best  room,  and  handing  him  a  chair,  hastily  untied 
her  sun-bonnet  and  threw  it  on  the  table,  requesting  him  to 
raise  one  of  the  windows,  while  she  would  call  her  mother. 

Frank  did  as  he  was  requested,  and,  seating  himself, 
took  a  survey  of  the  humble  apartment.  In  one  corner 
stood  an  old-fashioned  clock,  which  was  ticking  away,  the 
hour-hand  pointing  to  nearly  five.  Eight  or  ten  common 
wooden  chairs,  painted  black  and  flowered  with  yellow,  were 
set  round  the  room ;  between  the  two  front  windows  hung  a 
mahogany-framed  looking-glass,  with  a  landscape-painting 
at  the  top,  and  over  the  whole  of  which  was  a  piece  of  green 
gauze.  In  the  fireplace  on  one  side  of  the  room  was  a  large 
bunch  of  green  ivy-bushes,  interspersed  with  wild-flowers, 
and  on  the  bushes  were  fastened  about  a  dozen  blown  egg- 
shells, that  had  been  dipped  in  melted  bees'-wax,  looking 
yellow,  and  presenting  the  appearance  of  lemons  hanging 
among  the  green  leaves.  On  the  mantle-piece  were  two 
brass  candle-sticks,  which  shone  like  burnished  gold ;  and 
standing  by  the  jambs  of  the  fireplace  stood  a  pair  of  brass- 
headed  shovel  and  tongs,  and  within  the  jambs  were  a  pair 
of  andirons  with  urn-shaped  brass  tops.  A  home-made, 
striped  rag-carpet  was  on  the  floor  ;  and  under  the  looking- 
glass  stood  a  cherry  table,  with  a  polish  of  bees'-wax, 
shining  equal  to  any  modern  high-finish ;  while  in  one  cor- 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  223 

ner  of  the  room  stood  a  bureau  or  desk,  it  answering  the 
double  purpose,  and  on  the  top  of  which  was  a  book-case 
about  half  filled  with  books.  These  articles,  and  an  old- 
fashioned,  round-top  stand,  with  a  large  family  bible 
covered  with  green  baize,  constituted  all  the  furniture  of 
the  best  room.  A  coarse  painting  of  a  man  in  the  olden 
costume  of  small  clothes,  shoes  with  large  buckles,  ruffled 
wristbands  to  his  shirt,  and  a  long-waisted  coat  with  enor- 
mous large  buttons,  was  hung  on  the  whitewashed  wall  on 
one  side  of  the  room,  while  over  the  mantel-piece  were  two 
or  three  dingy  gilt  frames,  hanging  against  the  chimney, 
containing  profiles  cut  from  paper,  and  placed  on  black  silk, 
showing  the  side  of  the  form  of  faces. 

Frank  had  scarcely  cast  his  cursory  survey  over  the  room, 
when  Julia  again  made  her  appearance,  accompanied  by  her 
mother.  The  old  lady  was  dressed  in  a  dark-colored  calico 
frock,  over  which  was  a  check  apron,  tied  around  her  waist. 

She  wore  a  common,  middle-aged-woman's  cap,  and 
though  her  countenance  looked  care-worn  and  somewhat  old, 
yet  there  were  traces  of  beauty  still  remaining  on  her  face. 
As  she  entered  the  room,  Frank  arose,  and  was  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Sefton  by  Julia;  the  old  lady  curtsying  and 
smoothing  down  her  starched  apron,  as  she  took  a  seat 
opposite  him. 

Mrs.  Sefton,  like  many  other  ladies,  was  talkative ;  she 
remembered  his  father  and  mother — when  they  were  mar- 
ried— what  a  pretty  little  boy  he  was  when  a  baby — how 
handsome  his  father  used  to  be,  and  thought  he  resembled 
him  uncommonly.  All  of  which  Frank  listened  to,  and 


224  THE     STRAWBERRY      GIRL. 

laughed,  and  humored  the  old  woman,  praising  her  nice 
little  house,  and  complimenting  her  daughter  Julia. 

In  the  mean  time  Julia  had  changed  her  home-made 
frock  for  a  neat  calico  one,  and  was  seen  flying  round  in  the 
adjoining  room ;  and  in  a  few  moments  came  in  and  moved 
out  the  cherry  table,  spreading  over  it  a  table-cloth  that 
vied  in  whiteness  with  the  pure  snow,  and  as  if  by  magic, 
soon  had  it  covered  with  tea-things,  with  the  accompani- 
ments of  a  blue  bowl  of  rich  cream  and  a  large  dish  of 
strawberries  ;  and  Frank  observed  that  her  hair,  which  had 
hung  in  dishevelled  tresses  when  they  arrived,  was  now 
neatly  combed  and  hanging  in  ringlets  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  with  a  fresh-blown  rose  pinned  among  a  cluster 
of  curls  on  one  of  her  temples. 

"  Julia,  I  see,  has  set  the  table,"  said  the  old  lady,  ad- 
dressing Frank  ;  "  her  strawberries  will  be  a  treat  to  you, 
I  suppose  ;"  and  leading  the  way,  they  sat  down,  Julia 
pouring  the  tea,  and  helping  him  to  strawberries  and  cream. 
To  say  that  Frank  Linden  did  not  enjoy  himself,  would 
be  belieing  his  looks  and  feelings — he  was  perfectly  en- 
raptured ;  and  after  spending  a  pleasant  hour,  he  rose  to 
depart. 

Julia  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and  he  made  her 
promise  that  on  the  morrow  she  would  be  ready  to  go  with 
him  and  gather  strawberries,  provided  her  mother  had  no 
objections. 

On  Frank's  return  to  his  uncle's,  the  old  gentleman  was 
inquisitive  to  know  where  he  had  been ;  but  Frank  evasive- 
ly answered,  telling,  however,  all  the  places  he  had  wan- 


THE      STRAWBERRY      GIRL.  225 

dered  over,  at  the  same  time  studiously  avoiding  all  mention 
of  his  adventure  with  Julia  Sefton. 

It  leaked  out  notwithstanding,  the  next  day,  by  the  way 
of  Elsie  who  early  called  on  Julia  to  go  after  berries,  and 
he  artlessly  told  her  about  the  snake  scene,  and  of  Frank's 
accompanying  her  home. 

Every  pleasant  day  for  a  week  or  two  Frank,  Julia  and 
Elsie  were  off  gathering  strawberries.  Each  had  a  basket, 
and  Elsie  competed  with  Julia  in  gathering  the  greatest 
quantity,  always  getting  her  basket  fu/1  first,  not  so  much 
from  her  being  more  expert,  as  frora  other  little  circum- 
stances, such  as,  that  if  Julia  came  across  a  spot  where 
they  were  thick,  she  called  Frank,  (who  not  being  very 
expert,  filled  his  basket  slow,)  and  directed  him  to  the 
thickest  clusters  ;  and  then  half  joking,  and  half  from  some 
other  cause,  he  would  occasionally  take  a  handfull  from  her 
own  basket  and  put  them  into  his ;  and  again  she  fre- 
quently had  to  stop  and  listen  to  some  little  story  of  his  ; 
and  sometimes,  when  picking  side  by  side,  she  was  obliged 
to  playfully  push  Frank  away,  as  his  fingers  were  sure  to 
come  in  contact  with  hers  and  take  hold  of  them,  pretend- 
ing he  thought  them  berries,  while  she  would  stop  and 
box  his  ears  for  taking  her  hand  for  the  vines. 

Every  rainy  and  unpleasant  day  Frank  was  sure  to  go  a 
fishing  in  the  brook  which  ran  along  near  Mrs.  Sefton's 
house,  and  to  be  gone  all  day ;  yet  he  never  catched  a  chub 
or  trout,  but  might  have  been  seen,  instead  of  being  on  the 
margin  of  the  brook  angling  for  fish,  to  be  sitting  alongside 
of  Julia  in  the  loom  where  she  was  weaving,  helping  her  tie 


226  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

the  threads,  fix  the  quills  in  the  shuttle,  and  occasionally 
wanting  to  whisper  something  in  her  ear,  because  he  pre- 
tended the  loom  made  such  a  noise  he  thought  she  could 
not  hear, — always  making  a  mistake  in  getting  his  mouth  to 
her  ear,  by  placing  it  to  her  lips  ;  and  when  he  went  away, 
would  always  brag  to  Mrs.  Sefton  how  much  Julia  and 
himself  had  wove.  But  the  old  lady  averred,  that  with  all 
Iris  help,  Julia  did  not  weave  scarcely  any  when  he  was 
there ;  and  occasionally  scolded  her  when  she  went  into  the 
room  and  saw  how  little  she  had  accomplished. 

At  length  the  four  weeks  of  Frank's  visit  to  his  uncle 
expired,  and  he  was  to  go  the  next  morning.  He  never 
knew  so  short  a  month,  and  Julia,  who  dreamed  and 
thought  of  nothing  but  Frank,  wondered  why  he  should  stay 
so  short  a  time. 

"  Then  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  cousin  Frank,"  said 
Julia,  when  he  told  her  he  was  going  ;  for  they  had  added 
the  endearing  name  of  cousin  to  each  other,  for  that  kind 
of  relationship  that  existed  between  them,  or  as  a  substitute 
for  a  more  tender  title.  "  And  you  will  forget  your  cousin 
Julia  when  you  get  to  the  city.  I  wish  you  had  never  come 
to  visit  your  uncle !"  and  she  leaned  her  head  against  his 
breast,  with  both  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  cousin  Julia,"  replied  Frank, 
pressing  her  to  his  bosom.  "  Have  you  no  relations  in  the 
city  that  you  may  one  day  visit  1  because  then  I  might  see 
you." 

"  Alas  !  I  know  not,"  sobbed  the  poor  girl ;  "  but  then 
if  I  had,  it  would  not  be  like  seeing  you  here, — and  then  I 


THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL.  227 

am  a  poor  girl,  and  you  will  move  among  the  rich.  It  is 
right  I  suppose  for  us  now  to  part ;  but,  Frank,  you  will 
sometimes  think  of  me,  won't  you  1"  and  she  looked  up  into 
his  face,  with  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  I  will  think  of  you,  and  love  you  too,"  answered 
he,  kissing  the  tears  from  her  face.  At  length  he  hade 
her  farewell,  telling  her  always  to  remember  him,  and  that 
he  should  never  forget  her. 

The  next  day,  by  the  roots  of  one  of  the  large  trees  in 
front  of  their  house,  on  the  spot  where  she  had  parted  with 
Frank,  Julia  found  a  pocket  pistol.  She  knew  it  belonged 
to  him,  for  it  had  the  initials  of  his  name  "  F.  L."  rudely 
marked  on  a  little  silver  plate  on  the  stock.  She  took  it 
and  put  it  in  her  trunk,  resolving  to  keep  it  until  she  again 
saw  him.  It  would  be  a  kind  of  remembrance,  though  she 
felt  she  needed  nothing  just  then  to  keep  him  in  her  recol- 
lection. A  little  wad  of  paper  was  stuffed  in  the  muzzle 
of  the  pistol,  which  Julia  discovered  when  she  put  it  into 
her  trunk,  and  as  it  was  probably  put  there  by  Frank,  she 
did  not  remove  it ;  as  every  thing  now  that  related  to  him 
in  her  possession  was  a  treasure  to  her. 

Julia's  parents  were  English,  who  had  come  to  this 
country  early,  and  located  on  the  spot  where  her  mother 
now  resided.  They  were  poor,  and  she  was  their  only 
child.  Mrs.  Sefton  had  been  a  widow  about  a  year,  her 
husband  having  for  some  years  before  his  death  been  out 
of  health,  so  that  when  he  died  there  was  little  left  for  his 
wife  and  daughter.  They,  however,  managed  to  live  in  the 
same  house,  and  by  industry  and  economy,  with  the  help 


228  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

of  a  cow  and  about  a  couple  of  acres  of  land,  got  along 
quite  comfortably.  This  was  their  situation  when  Frank 
Linden  became  acquainted  with  Julia. 

About  one  year  rolled  on  after  Frank  Linden  made  his 
visit  to  his  uncle.  He  had  commenced  the  study  of  law, 
and  amid  his  studies,  amusements,  and  pleasures  in  the 
city,  thought  but  little  of  Julia  Sefton.  It  is  true,  occa- 
sionally some  little  circumstance  would  remind  him  of  the 
artless,  pretty  strawberry  girl  who  had  so  enraptured  him, 
and  for  the  first  time  enlisted  the  feelings  of  love  in  his 
breast ;  and  though  at  such  times  some  misgivings  of  con- 
science would  come  over  him,  for  awakening  in  her  gentle 
bosom  hopes  of  his  lasting  attachment,  yet  he  excused  him- 
self, and  would  as  much  as  possible  banish  the  recollection 
of  her  from  his  mind.  When,  he  first  returned  from  his 
visit,  he  spoke  in  rapture  of  Julia  to  his  sister  Ann,  and 
described  her  as  one  on  whom  his  memory  would  linger  with 
delight.  She  joked  him  frequently  of  his  country  love, 
and  often  reminded  him  of  the  extravagant  encomiums  he 
bestowed  on  her ;  and  then  all  the  dear  recollections  of  his 
visit  and  Julia  Sefton  would  rise  up  before  him,  and  he 
would  laughingly  tell  Ann  that  Julia  would  one  day,  per- 
haps, become  her  sister. 

In  the  mean  time  Julia,  by  the  way  of  Elsie  Jones,  who 
still  resided  at  Frank's  uncle's,  learnt  that  he  was  studying 
law ;  and  though  she  never  expected  to  see  him  again,  she 
continued  to  cherish  his  image  in  her  recollection. 

One  day  she  was  unusually  depressed  in  spirits, — her 
mother  had  gone  to  assist  a  neighbor,  in  whose  bounty  they 


THE      STRAWBERRY      GIRL.  229 

were  continually  sharing  ;  and  she  was  left  alone  at  home. 
She  went  to  her  trunk  for  something  which  she  wanted,  and 
in  removing  some  articles  to  find  it,  lifted  out,  accidentally, 
Frank's  pocket  pistol,  which  lay  among  them.  It  fell  on 
the  floor  and  suddenly  exploded,  startling  her  so  much,  that 
it  was  some  moments  ere  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently 
to  pick  it  up.  She  never  dreamed  when  she  put  it  there 
that  it  was  loaded  ;  and  the  thoughts  that  something  serious 
might  have  occurred  made  her  feel  thankful  that  she  had 
escaped  injury.  Picking  up  the  pistol  from  the  floor,  she 
stood  looking  at  it,  as  she  had  frequently  done  when  visit- 
ing her  trunk ;  and  she  thought  of  Frank,  until  the  tears 
filled  her  eyes.  All  at  once  the  smoke  of  burning  paper 
arrested  her  attention,  and  she  discovered  that  the  wadding 
that  had  been  discharged  from  the  loaded  instrument  was 
smoking  in  one  corner  of  her  room.  She  instantly  ran  and 
put  it  out,  and  looking  on  the  floor,  near  the  now  extin- 
guished wad,  saw  the  little  roll  of  paper  that  was  in  the 
muzzle  of  the  pistol.  Looking  at  it  a  moment,  she  care- 
lessly picked  it  up,  and  discovering  that  there  was  print- 
ing on  it,  unrolled  the  kind  of  stopple  and  stood  by  the 
window,  listlessly  glancing  her  eyes  over  what  was  on  it. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  piece  of  an  old  newspaper,  torn  from 
among  the  advertisements  that  had  been  printed  a  year  or 
two  previous.  As  her  eyes  thoughtlessly  ran  over  some  of 
the  old  notices,  they  rested  on  the  following : 

"  INFORMATION  WANTED  ! — Information  is  wanted  respecting  the 
whereabouts  or  place  of  residence  of  one  Leander  Sefton,  and  his  wife 
»nd  child,  who  emigrated  to  this  country  from  England  some  years 


230  THE      STRAWBERRY      GIRL. 

since,  the  place  of  their  location  not  being  known  by  their  friends 
Any  one  knowing  the  family  will  confer  a  favor  on  them  by  sending 
information  to  this  office,  or  the  family  themselves  will  learn  something 
of  great  importance  to  them  by  calling  at  No.  —  Broadway,  New 
York." 

This,  in  addition,  was  duly  signed  and  dated  as  a  public 
advertisement.  What  could  it  mean?  The  information 
required  most  certainly  alluded  to  their  family.  Julia  was 
not  born  when  they  came  to  this  country,  but  she  had  fre- 
quently heard  her  father  and  mother  talk  of  their  friends  in 
the  old  world,  regretting  that  all  communication  was  sus- 
pended, and  they  and  their  connexions  were  buried  to  each 
other.  She  read  the  notice  over  and  over  again,  and 
longed  for  her  mother  to  come  home.  As  it  drew  towards 
night,  she  stood  in  the  door  and  watched  for  her  coming, 
and  so  impatient  was  she,  that  minutes  seemed  as  hours  to 
her. 

At  length,  Julia  discovered  ner  mother  far  up  the  road, 
slowly  wending  her  way  home,  and  she  could  not  wait  until 
she  arrived,  but  ran  off  to  meet  her.  The  old  lady  saw 
Julia  running  towards  her,  and  could  not  for  her  life 
imagine  what  was  the  matter.  Julia  soon,  however,  came 
up,  and  in  hurried  accents  communicated  the  contents  of 
the  advertisement  she  had  discovered. 

Mrs.  Sefton  was  surprised  beyond  measure.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  but  that  they  were  the  persons  sought 
for.  Her  husband,  she  knew,  was  a  connexion  of  a 
wealthy  family  of  the  same  name  in  England,  and  in  his 
early  days  it  was  supposed  that  he  would  inherit  an  estate 


THE      STRAWBERRY      GIRL.  231 

of  some  thousands  on  the  death  of  an  uncle  ;  but  that  uncle 
they  heard  had  died,  and  it  was  said  that  he  left  the  pro- 
perty to  another. 

After  a  day  or  two  advising,  it  was  decided  that  Julia 
should  proceed  to  New  York,  and  make  application  at  the 
place  designated  in  the  advertisement ;  and  accordingly 
preparations  were  made  for  her  to  go  on  the  important 
expedition. 

Unused  to  travelling  and  inexperienced,  Julia  knew 
nothing  of  the  ways  of  the  world.  There  were  four  pas- 
sengers in  the  coach  in  which  she  took  her  passage  to  New 
York,  all  males,  two  of  them  rather  aged,  and  the  other 
two  were  young  men.  Her  youthful  appearance  and  pretty 
looks  attracted  attention  from  the  young  mon  ;  and  unpro- 
tected as  she  was,  her  situation  made  her  feel  unpleasant 
After  an  hour  or  two,  however,  one  of  the  elderly  gentle- 
men, a  Quaker,  who  lived  in  the  city,  seeing  how  she  was 
situated,  felt  interested  for  her,  and  kindly  took  her  under 
his  charge,  benevolently  paying  every  attention  to  her  she 
needed  during  the  numerous  changes  and  stoppings ;  and 
they  reached  the  city  the  next  day  in  the  morning,  stopping 
at  the  stage-house  in  the  Bowery. 

Here  her  Quaker  friend,  after  getting  a  room  for  her 
accommodation,  and  having  her  trunk  carried  to  it,  left 
her ;  and  Julia  retired,  that  she  might,  after  taking  some 
refreshment,  be  ready  to  go  out,  and  transact  the  business 
of  her  journey. 

She  soon  finished  her  toilet  operation,  and  partook  of  a 
comfortable  breakfast.  The  room  she  occupied  looked  into 


232  THE      STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

the  street,  and  was  over  the  stage-office ;  and  just  as  she 
had  got  ready  to  go  out,  she  heard  voices  below,  one  of  them 
saying,  "  Here,  take  my  card  up  to  her — I  know  it  must  be 
a  lady  I  have  seen  !  "  and  in  a  moment  more  she  was  sur- 
prised by  a  servant  at  her  door,  who  entered  and  handed 
her  a  card,  with  the  name  of  "  Frank  Linden"  written 
on  it. 

"  0,  where  is  he  ?  "  she  involuntarily  exclaimed,  as  she 
saw  the  name  ;  and  confused  and  overjoyed,  she  looked  at 
the  servant  entreatingly. 

"  He  is  below,  Miss,"  answered  the  servant.  "  Shall  I 
send  him  up  1 " 

"  O,  do  !  "  she  hastily  and  innocently  replied,  and  the 
servant  stared  at  her  and  left  the  room. 

"  How  fortunate  this  is !  "  joyfully  murmured  she  to 
herself ;  and  in  an  instant  more  the  door  was  thrown  open 
again,  and  she  was  in  the  arms  of  Frank  Linden. 

Frank  had  been  walking  that  morning,  and  accidentally 
stopping  at  the  hotel  after  the  stage  arrived,  saw  the  name 
of  Julia  Sefton  on  the  book,  as  taken  from  the  way-bill, 
and  had  immediately  inquired  for  her. 

It  took  but  a  few  moments  for  Julia  to  tell  Frank  what 
brought  her  to  the  city, — the  circumstance  of  her  discover- 
ing the  notice  on  the  piece  of  old  newspaper,  and  the  pro- 
bability that  it  was  for  them,  the  name  of  her  father,  and 
the  other  members  of  the  family  in  number,  all  correspond- 
ing. 

After  the  excitement  of  their  meeting  had  a  little  sub- 
sided, Frank  accompanied  Julia  to  the  place  mentioned  in 


THE     STKAWBERRY     GIRL.  233 

the  advertisement ;  and  hearing  the  particulars,  his  surprise 
and  joy  were  scarce  less  than  hers  on  finding  that  the  fact 
was,  a  large  legacy  in  funds  had  been  left  to  her  father  in 
England, — in  case  of  his  death  it  was  to  go  to  his  heirs,  of 
which  Julia  was  the  only  one. 

After  putting  her  business  in  a  proper  train,  Frank  took 
Julia  home  to  his  mother  and  sister,  introducing  her,  rela- 
ting the  object  of  her  visit  to  the  city,  her  success,  and  the 
prospect  of  her  becoming  an  heiress  to  a  splendid  fortune. 

The  Linden  family  received  Julia  as  the  acquaintance  of 
Frank,  tendering  her  the  hospitalities  of  their  house,  and 
paid  her  every  attention  in  their  power ;  and  as  she  had 
necessarily  to  stay  in  the  city  a  few  days,  she  made  their 
house-her  home. 

Frank's  law  studies,  somehow,  for  a  few  days  failed  to 
draw  him  to  the  office  ;  he  found  it  more  pleasant  to  be 
sitting  with  his  sister  Ann  and  Julia  than  to  be  poring  over 
Blackstone, — he  was  attending  a  suit  at  home,  and  he 
gained  his  cause ;  for,  ere  Julia  left,  they  had  exchanged 
vows. 

The  morning  alter  Frank  had  won  his  suit,  as  he  was 
making  a  confidant  of  his  sister,  alone  by  themselves,  Julia 
accidentally  came  into  the  room,  just  as  Ann  was  saying  to 
her  brother,  "  And  where  is  that  old  pistol,  that  has  blown 
to  light  the  fortune  of  your  beloved  'I  " 

"  Ay,  where  is  my  pistol,  Julia  1 "  asked  Frank,  looking 
towards  her,  "  I  told  Ann  that  it  would  be  the  instrument 
of  making  a  fortune." 

Julia  blushed  at  the  tell-tale  looks  of  Frank,  as  she  re 


234  THE     STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

plied,  "  It  has  indeed  been  a  fortunate  instrument,"  and 
she  went  to  get  the  pistol  out  of  her  trunk. 

Julia  did  not  return  home  unaccompanied ;  and  on 
Frank's  third  visit  to  see  his  uncle,  some  few  months 
after,  she  returned  to  the  city  with  him  as  his  bride. 

Ann,  who  had  now  indeed  got  a  sister  in  Frank's  pretty 
Strawberry  Girl,  as  she  embraced  her  as  his  wife,  delivered 
over  the  lock  of  hair,  saying,  "  Here,  Julia,  is  your  hus- 
band's keepsake  to  me.  I  was  to  hand  it  over  when  he  got 
married." 

Julia  took  the  lock  of  hair,  kissed  and  returned  it  again 
to  Ann,  saying  that  as  she  had  Frank  himself,  she  could 
well  spare  that  much  of  him,  requesting  her  to  keep  it  in 
remembrance  of  her  brother  and  for  her  sake ;  and 
laughingly  clipping  off  one  of  her  own  golden  curls, 
which  she  presented,  told  her  she  could  now  have  a  part  of 
each,  hoping  she  would  never  love  them  less  for  the  keep- 
sake. 

Frank  Linden  finished  his  law  studies,  and  became  quite 
eminent  at  the  bar.  In  after  years,  when  a  group  of  young 
black-eyed,  cherry-cheeked  Lindens  were  fondling  around 
him,  and  Julia,  one  of  them,  said,  "  Come,  pa,  tell  us  a 
pretty  story,"  he  related  the  preceding ;  and  when  they  had 
listened,  and  asked  the  name  of  the  story,  he  laughed  and 
sent  them  to  ask  their  blushing  ma,  telling  them  he  believed 
it  was  called  "  The  Strawberry  Girl,  or  the  Old  Pocket 
Pistol." 


THE    AUTHOR'S   BENEFIT.  235 


RECORDS  OF  LITERARY  LIFE. 
NO.  I. 


BY  B.   B.   BLANK,  GENTLEMAN  DE  JURE. 

"  WHY  don't  you  try  the  stage,  Blank1?"  said  a  fortunate 
son  of  commerce  to  an  wnfortunate  son  of  commas,  with 
whom  the  good  and  great  man  had  once  most  graciously 
condescended  to  pass  the  evening  and  partake  of  a  bottle 
of  wine. 

"  I  have  tried  it^"  was  the  laconic  response  of  the  man 
of  letters. 

"  You  got  the  piece  brought  on  the  stage,  didn't  you?" 

"  I  did." 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  had  a  benefit1?" 

"  I  had,  and  such  a  benefit,  too,  as  I  shall  not  be  likely 
to  forget." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Blank  1  the  piece  wasn't  damned, 
surely,  on  the  author's  benefit  night  ?" 

"  '  Worser  than  that,'  as  the  Fat  Boy  said." 

"  Worse  than  that  !  It  couldn't  be  worse  than  that. 
Damnation  i?  the  climax  of  all  misfortunes  either  in  this 
world  or  the  next.  But  drop  your  mysticisms,  and  let  us 
hear  all  about  it,  at  once." 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  all  ;  but  you  shall  hear  a  part. 


236  THE   AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

But  before  beginning,  and  while  there  is  yet  time  to  recall 
your  rash  request,  I  give  you  notice  that  a  whole  composed 
of  many  such  parts,  would,  as  the  Yankee  says,  be  '  pretty 
considerable.'  So,  if  after  this  warning,  you  persist  in  your 
rash  request,  your  anger  and  your  ennui  be  upon  your  own 
head." 

"  Be  it  so,  only  proceed — I  am  becoming  interested." 

" '  He  that  will  to  Cupar,  maun  to  Cupar,'  saith  the 
proverb  ;  so  here  goes  : 

"  I  believe  I  never  told  you  that,  in  the  course  of  my 
literary  career,  I  had  once  been  a  journalist.  No  matter. 
I  couldn't  make  it  go,  and  that  would  be  an  end  of  it,  only 
that  I  believe  that  you  could  not  well  understand  how  I 
'  fell  in'  to  the  one  walk,  without  knowing  something  of  how 
I  '  fell  out'  of  the  other.  In  my  mind  my  connection  with 
the  press  and  my  connection  with  the  stage  are  so  indissolu- 
bly  connected  that  I  could  not  conveniently  think  or  speak 
of  the  one  without  thinking  or  speaking  of  the  other.  You 
cannot  understand  why  this  should  be  the  case  at  present, 
but  you  will  fully  appreciate  it  by  and  by. 

"  You  no  doubt  recollect  the  case  of  Mr.  Weller's  friend, 
the  cobbler,  who  had  been  ruined  by  having  had  money  be- 
queathed to  him.  I  always  thought  his  case  a  strange  one, 
but  I  consider  my  own  quite  as  strange.  I  lost  public  con- 
fidence by  convincing  the  public  that  I  was  honest.  We 
hear  a  great  deal  almost  every  day  about  honest  and  inde- 
pendent journals.  Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  there  is  no 
such  thing  in  existence.  The  possession  of  such  a  phe- 
nomenon would  make  a  nonentity  of  a  nabob  in  a  single 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  237 

year.  My  own  party  admitted  that  I  was  a  clever  enough 
writer,  but  decidedly  too  candid  for  a  politician,  while  our 
opponents  denounced  me  day  after  day,  as  a  daring  and 
dangerous  incendiary  j  at  once  an  enemy  to  society  and  a 
traitor  to  the  commonwealth.  It  could  not  be  that  they 
attached  to  myself  personally,  or  to  the  press  under  my  con- 
trol, sufficient  importance  to  justify  such  incessant  and 
systematic  persecution ;  but  their  object  must  have  been  to 
stab  the  party,  to  which  I  had  dedicated  my  services, 
through  the  side  of  its  too  fearless  champion.  Our  folks, 
however,  were  '  too  wide  awake'  to  give  them  the  chance, 
for  they  prudently  and  quietly  washed  their  hands  of  a  con- 
cern that  they  soon  perceived  was  calculated  to  do  them 
more  harm  than  good. — Thus  rendering  the  prayer  of  the 
philosopher,  '  to  be  saved  from  his  friends,'  entirely  super- 
fluous so  far  as  they  were  concerned  ;  they  having  effected 
that  consummation  for  themselves,  without  any  necessity  for 
providential  interference. 

"  There  is,  I  believe,  no  species  of  infatuation  short  of 
absolute  madness  to  compare  with  the  unyielding  perversity 
that  prompts  the  proprietor  of  a  falling  newspaper  to  per- 
sist in  its  publication.  Neither  the  desertion  of  his  last 
friend,  nor  the  absorption  of  his  last  farthing,  can  admonish 
him  to -pause  in  his  suicidal  career  ;  but  led  on  by  a  sort  of 
mocking  monomania  (for  it  cannot  properly  be  called  hope,) 
similar  to  that  which  clings  to  the  culprit  at  the  gallows 
foot,  he  persists  from  day  to  day,  till  either  the  mill-agent 
refuses  another  ream  of  paper,  or  the  sheriff  lays  hands 
upon  the  press.  And,  indeed,  even  then,  it  is  ten  to  one, 


238  THE    AUTHOR'S 


that  his  diseased  imagination  will  present  the  vision  of 
some  great  capitalist  or  influential  politician,  coming  and 
asking  what  is  the  matter,  and,  upon  learning  the  state  of 
the  case,  laughing  at  the  very  idea  of  permitting  such  a 
print  as  the  -  to  go  down  for  the  want  of  a  few 
thousands. 

"  It  was  during  the  exhaustion  that  is  almost  certain  to 
succeed  one  of  those  terrible  and  mysterious  paroxysms, 
that  I  first  thought  of  writing  for  the  stage.  The  severe 
regimen  prescribed,  not  by  an  eminent  physician,  but  by  an 
empty  purse,  had  completely  reduced  my  malady  and 
restored  my  reason.  Actuated  by  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  I  had  rented  an  apartment  at  three  dollars  per 
month,  which,  though  it  might  have  been  amply  carpeted  by 
and  ordinarily-sized  shawl,  was  to  suffice,  in  '  its  own  proper 
person,'  for  sitting-room,  sleeping-room,  library,  office,  and 
study  ;  not  to  mention  (for,  in  truth,  they  were  scarcely 
worth  mentioning,)  its  additional  duties  in  its  capacity  of 
pantry,  kitchen,  and  cellar.  It  was  therefore  in  the  most 
picturesque  and  secluded  nook  of  this  most  picturesque  and 
secluded  mansion,  that,  polishing  and  combining  the  fresh 
and  vigorous  conceptions  of  genius  by  the  most  mature 
judgment  and  severe  artistic  skill,  I  produced  the  immortal 
work  that  was  destined  to  '  accrue  to  my  benefit,'  in  fame 
and  fortune,  in  the  manner  following  : 

"  The  fate  of  my  journal,  though  it  had  not  much  shaken 
my  own  faith  in  my  own  abilities,  in  the  abatraet,  had 
nevertheless  inspired  me  with  doubts  as  to  the  capacity  of 
the  public  to  appreciate  my  talents.  With  becoming 


THE   AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  239 

modesty  I  concluded  that  the  latter  were  of  too  high  an 
order  to  be  properly  estimated  by  any  save  the  most  en- 
lightened portion  of  the  most  enlightened  community  ;  and 
it  was  therefore  with  considerable  misgivings  as  to  its  fate, 
first  with  the  manager,  and  subsequently  with  the  managed, 
that  I  began  and  finished  what  I  believed  in  my  own  heart 
to  be  a  perfect  gem  of  dramatic  art. 

"  How  I  lived,  or  rather  how  I  existed,  during  the  period 
of  its  creation,  would,  if  faithfully  and  forcibly  communi- 
cated to  the  public,  confer  a  '  benefit'  upon  medical  science 
and  domestic  economy,  compared  with  which  the  '  Author's 
Benefit'  would  be  almost  as  nothing.*  My  books,  wearing- 
apparel,  &c.,  remained  at  the  residence  of  the  only  relative 
who  had  latterly  taken  any  interest  in  my  affairs,  and  with 
whom  I  had  been  occasionally  stopping*  during  the  last  days 
of  my  unfortunate  newspaper.  My  uncle  (for  in  that  rela- 
tion did  the  kinsman  in  question  stand  to  me),  though  a 
good  enough  sort  of  man  in  his  way^  and  not  wholly  indif- 
ferent to  the  claims  of  ordinary  poverty,  had  but  little 
sympathy  for  absolute  destitution.  Therefore  to  wait  upon 
him,  in  person,  haggard  and  empty-handed  as  I  then  was, 
would,  I  was  well  enough  aware,  be  much  more  likely  to 
excite  his  indignation  than  to  inspire  his  pity :  and  I  had 
sufficient  experience  of  tho  prying  and  not  over  delicate 
temperament  of  the  testyt  old  gentleman,  to  convince  me 

*  1  might,  at  some  time,  have  been  tempted  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  my  prison- 
house,  but  for  two  causes,  one  of  which  was,  that  I  did  not  believe  society  had 
merited  such  a  service  at  my  hand  ;  and  the  other  was  not  merely  an  apprehension, 
but  a  positive  conviction,  that  the  speculators  in  breadstuff's  would  have  the  recerd 
earned  by  the  hand  of  the  common  hangman. 


240  THE   AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

that  before  surrendering  my  property  to  any  third  person 
whom  I  might  depute  to  receive  it,  he  would  demand  an 
amount  of  satisfaction  which  I  was  not  just  then  in  a  con- 
dition to  afford.  So  that  even  the  miserable  resources 
which  I  might  otherwise  have  derived  from  these  last  rem- 
nants of  my  property  were  thus  effectually  cut  off;  and  I 
was  left  to  the  operations  of  providence,  on  the  better  feel- 
ings of  the  better  few  of  my  former  non-paying  subscribers : 
for  it  is  but  justice  to  the  upper  or  more  patronising  class 
of  my  friends  and  supporters  to  state,  that  they  had,  with 
a  delicacy  of  feeling  that  does  them  eternal  honor,  latterly 
avoided  me  altogether.  With  the  tact  peculiar  to  refined 
and  cultivated  minds,  they  must  either  have  concluded  that, 
in  my  altered  circumstances,  their  presence  would  be  morti- 
fying to  my  pride,  or  else  that  their  countenance,  at  such  a 
juncture,  might  inspire  hopes  that  it  would  be  equally  disa- 
greeable to  combat  and  imprudent  to  realize.  But  to  pro- 
ceed with  my  story.  Like  the  criminal  whose  trial 
approaches,  my  excitement  became  intense,  as  my  drama 
began  to  approach  its  close  :  but  when,  through  the  agency 
of  a  friend,  it  was  eventually  placed  in  the  hands  of  a 
manager,  and  when  some  days  had  elapsed  without  my 
hearing  anything  on  the  subject,  my  hopes  and  my  agitation 
began  to  subside  together. 

"  In  the  meantime  my  every  resource  had  become  exhaust- 
ed. Another  instalment  of  rent  was,  for  some  days,  due, 
and  my  landlord,  though  still  modest,  was  evidently  becom- 
ing melancholy.  Winter  had  fairly  set  in ;  and  I  had 
warmed  myself  by  the  '  last  fagot  that  my  last  farthing 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  241 

had  purchased ;'  and  was  cold  again.  (  Every  person  and 
every  occurrence'  seemed  to  conspire  against  me.  Even 
a  dog,  probably  discovering  through  the  a-Cute-ness  of  his 
'  noble  instinct,'  that  I  was  a  person  to  be  '  Put  down,'  had 
contributed  his  mite  to  that  consummation,  by  tearing  the 
skirt  off  my  only  coat. 

"  While  my  affairs  were  thus  evidently  approaching  a 
crisis,  I  had  one  morning  quite  unexpectedly  found  a  six- 
pence in  the  pocket  of  an  old  vest,  and  as  there  had  been 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow  the  night  before,  I  was  just  calculating 
(now  that  I  had  the  power  of  making  a  choice)  whether  it 
would  be  better  to  buy  arsenic,  and  stay  within  doors,  or 
borrow  a  shovel,  and  start  out  and  try  my  fortune  as  a 
cleaner  of  sidewalks.  The  instinct  of  gentility  which  had 
once  been  the  most  potent  ingredient  in  my  composition,  and 
which  even  yet  was  not  wholly  eradicated  from  my  system, 
at  once  suggested  the  preference  of  dying  like  a  gentleman 
to  living  like  a  sweep.  It  (the  instinct  aforesaid)  moreover 
insisted,  that  when  men  and  angels  had  abandoned  me, 
there  was  one  who  had  not ;  but  with  the  consideration  of  a 
brother,  had  furnished  me  with  the  means  of  reaching  him- 
self, where  there  could  be  little  doubt  I  would  meet  a 
hearty  and  warm  reception  :  and  that  to  appropriate  the 
remittance  to  any  other  use,  than  that  contemplated  by  the 
generous  donor,  would  be,  at  once,  an  act  of  black  ingrati- 
tude and  of  base  dishonor. 

"  Considering  the  late  scarcity  of  specie  on  the  premises, 
and  the  care  with  which  every  receptacle  of  that  description 
of  property  had  been  '  cleaned  out,'  the  turning  up  of  the 
11 


242  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

sixpence  could  scarcely  be  attributed  to  anything  short  of 
supernatural  agency.  And  taking  it  for  granted  that  somt 
power  had  miraculously  interfered,  the  sum  remitted  was 
so  much  worse  calculated  to  procure  a  meal  than  to  pur- 
chase a  medicine,  as  to  indicate  clearly  enough  that  my 
unknown  benefactor  had  made  the  advance  for  the  purpose 
of  enabling  me  to  terminate  rather  than  protract  my  miser- 
able existence.  If  the  amount  had  been  fifty,  or  even 
twenty-five  cents,  there  might  have  been  some  room  to 
doubt  the  exact  intentions  of  the  giver,  but  as  it  was,  there 
was  nothing  to  leave  '  the  mind  in  any  sort  of  suspense  as 
to  the  meaning.'  At  least  so  it  appeared  to  me,  and  in 
vindication  of  the  faith  that  was  in  me,  I  had  already 
reached  the  street,  when  what  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
the  last  stage  of  my  mortal  pilgrimage,  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  a  boy's  stopping  me  to  inquire  for  the  residence 
of  a  Mr.  Blank.  I  told  him  that  I  was  the  person  whom  he 
sought,  and  hastily  requested  to  know  his  business.  He  as 

hastily  produced  a  letter  which  he  said  was  from  Mr. , 

the  manager  to  whom  had  been  submitted  my  play,  and 
handing  it  to  me  took  his  leave. 

"  What  mysterious  and  inconsistent  creatures  we  are ! 
ar,  hour  before  I  could  have  put  a  loaded  pistol  to  my  head, 
c-t-  a  poisoned  cup  to  my  lip,  with  an  unshrinking  purpose 
and  a  steady  hand,  and  now  my  agitation  was  such  that  I 
was  scarcely  able  to  break  the  seal  of  a  letter  !  I  did, 
however,  break  it  at  last,  and  learned  from  its  contents  that 
my  play  had  been  accepted,  and  that  my  presence  was 
required  at  the  theatre,  the  next  morning,  for  the  purpose 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  243 


of  hearing  certain  suggestions  in  regard  to  some  slight  alter- 
ations that  the  manuscript  required  before  being  placed  in 
the  hands  of  the  actors.  On  the  whole  the  communication 
was  as  gratifying  as  I  could  have  desired,  unless  it  had 
actually  covered  a  remittance.  The  temperature  of  my 
room  rose  at  least  thirty  degrees  in  as  many  seconds,  and 
before  the  hour  was  out,  I  had  about  as  much  idea,  either 
of  becoming  a  suicide  or  a  sweep,  as  I  had  of  inflicting  per- 
sonal chastisement  on  the  man  of  the  moon. 

"  The  sudden  change  in  my  prospects  affected  not  only  a 
very  perceptible  revolution  in  my  own  bearing,  but  also  in 
that  of  my  friends.  They  were  all  so  glad  :  though  it  was 
nothing  but  what  must  have  been  expected.  They  had 
known  all  along  that  a  man  like  me  could  not  be  long  kept 
down.  By  the  way,  it  was  probably  this  conviction  that 
prevented  them  all  from  offering  me  the  slightest  assistance 
to  rise.  But  now  that  I  was  upon  my  IP^S,  there  was  no 
lack  of  hands  to  brush  the  dust  off  my  garments,  and  there- 
by obliterate  all  indication  of  my  recent  fall.  Didn't  I 
want  money,  was  the  demand  of  one.  Didn't  I  need  *  a 
reg'lar  new  fit-out  o'  clothes,'  was  the  question  of  another. 
Like  the  erudite  and  excellent  Jedediah  Cleishbotham,  I 
partook,  in  a  '  moderate  degree,'  of  the  good  things  offered 
by  both ;  and  before  even  the  week,  whose  beginning  had 
witnessed  my  all  but  confirmed  resolve  of  quitting  the  world 
entirely,  had  fully  reached  its  close,  I  had  taken,  as  it  were, 
a  new  lease  of  existence  ;  and,  vanity  apart,  was  already 
about  as  favorable  a  specimen  of  the  ex-journalist  as  you 
«vould  be  at  all  likely  to  encounter.  So  that,  on  the  whole, 


244  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

it  is  but  justice  to  the  unknown  benefactor,  already  referred 
to,  to  admit,  that  whatever  might  be  his  '  intentions,* 
whether,  as  Mr.  Free  would  say,  '  vartuous'  or  otherwise, 
his  trifling  donation  had,  for  so  far ,  been  fortunate  to  me, 
or  at  least  coincidentally  the  precursor  of  a  very  uncommon 
run  of  good  luck. 

"  The  incessant  vigilance  of  the  energetic  and  experienced 
manager  was  not  long  in  bringing  my  fate,  as  a  dramatist, 
to  the  test  of  a  fair  trial ;  and  as  it  is  rather  the  effects  of 
the  speculation  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  author,  than  a  par- 
ticular history  of  the  production  itself,  that  I  propose  to 
communicate,  I  will  let  it  suffice  to  state,  that  the  charge  of 
the  press,  and  the  verdict  of  the  play-going  public  (the 
judge  and  jury  in  such  cases),  were  as  favorable  as  I  could 
have  either  reasonably  hoped  or  desired.  The  piece  had  a 
good  run,  as  it  is  called,  for  several  successive  nights  ;  and 
at  length  the  managerial  conscience  came  to  the  conviction 
that  it  was  now  time  that  the  originator  should  derive  some 
advantage  from  a  speculation,  for  so  far,  sufficiently  suc- 
cessful. 

"  In  accordance  with  this  praiseworthy  conviction,  the 
'  Author's  Benefit'  was  announced  in  due  form ;  and  apart 
from  the  habitual  and  well-known  good  nature  of  the  gen- 
eral public  on  such  occasions,  I  had  reason  to  believe  that 
there  were  certain  circumstances  involved,  calculated  tc 
render  such  benefit  what,  I  believe,  is  technically  denom- 
inated a  '  bumper.' 

"  I  have  already  intimated  my  high  admiration  of  the  re- 
fined and  unobtrusive  delicacy  that  had,  almost  uniformly, 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEJ    T.  245 

marked  the  course  of  my  friends  towards*  me,  subsequent 
to  the  fall  of  my  unfortunate  journal,  and  also  of  the  ready 
and  generous  outburst  of  satisfaction  with  which  I  was 
welcomed  back  to  their  circle  the  moment  that  there  was 
even  a  prospect  of  my  being  able  to  enter  it  on  terms  that 
would  not  be  humiliating  to  myself.  But,  strange  to  tell, 
there  were  others  who,  either  from  their  natural  distrustful- 
ness,  could  not,  or  from  their  instinctive  hatred  of  what- 
ever is  lofty  and  refined,  would  not,  see  the  matter  in  the 
same  light  in  which  I  viewed  it ;  and  some  of  these  even 
carried  their  scepticism  or  their  malice  so  far  as  to  publish 
a  series  of  very  ungenerous  and  offensive  strictures  upon 
the  relative  position  of  '  Shakspeare  and  his  Friends,'  in 
one  of  the  most  meddling  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  not  the 
least  influential,  of  the  daily  papers. 

"  Now,  whatever  may  have  been  the  amount  of  my  indig- 
nation at  this  daring  invasion  of  the  sanctity  of  private 
friendship,  I  could  not  but  foresee  that,  so  far  as  ray  coming 
benefit  was  concerned,  it  must  be,  on  the  whole,  beneficial. 
In  the  first  place,  it  Avas  calculated  to  give  the  affair  an 
unusual  degree  of  notoriety ;  and,  secondly,  if  there  were 
any  of  my  friends  who  felt  that  their  conduct  had,  in  any 
degree,  justified  the  malice  or  misconception  to  which  it  had 
been  exposed,  the  '  benefit'  was  sure  to  be  seized  by  them  as 
an  easy  and  graceful  opportunity  of  quietly  giving  the  lie  to 
the  insinuations  of  their  traducers;  as  it  afterwards  en< 
abled  them  to  say,  or,  what  was  still  better,  enabled  others 

*  The  word  '  towards,"  as  it  occurs  in  the  text,  is,  of  course,  not  to  be  "taken  ia 
its  literal  sens*   ' 


246  THE   AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

to  say  for  them,  '  If  the  friends  of  Mr.  Blank,  knowing 
that  they  had  a  gentleman  to  deal  with,  did  not  imper- 
tinently invade  the  sanctity  of  his  humhle  retreat  during 
his  temporary  obscurity,  had  they  not,  when  a  legitimate 
and  appropriate  opportunity  of  bettering  his  circumstances, 
without  wounding  his  feelings,  presented  itself,  come  to  the 
rescue,  as  friends  ought  ? '  And  that  I  had  not  over- 
estimated the  circumstances,  public  and  private,  that  bore 
favorably  on  the  '  coming  event,'  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  amply  demonstrated,  by  the  presence,  at  an  early 
hour,  of,  perhaps,  one  of  the  largest  and  most  respectable 
audiences  ever  convened  on  the  mere  occasion  of  a  common 
theatrical  performance. 

"  I  need  not  say  that,  during  an  existence  much  more 
frequently  and  deeply  marked  by  disappointment  and  humil- 
iation than  by  honor  and  triumph,  this  was  the  proudest 
moment.  But  a  moment,  and  a  moment  only,  it  was  des- 
tined to  be ;  for  after  two  or  three  manifestations  of  im- 
patience by  the  audience  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  the 
manager  presented  himself,  and  after  expressing  his  owr 
extreme  sorrow  and  mortification  at  the  circumstance, 
stated  that  the  person  who  had  hitherto  so  successfully  re- 
presented the  principal  character  in  the  new  piece  had  reck- 
lessly, and,  he  might  add,  criminally  rendered  himself  en- 
tirely unfit  for  appearing  before  them  on  the  present  occa- 
sion ;  and  as  a  proper  substitute  could  not  now  be  obtained, 
he  proposed,  with  their  permission,  to  offer  for  their  present 
amusement  something  else  ;  and  that  the  consummation  of 
the  highly  meritorious  purpose  which,  to  their  great  honor, 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  247 

had  brought  them  together  in  such  multitudinous  numbers, 
would  be  postponed  till  some  more  fortunate  occasion,  when 
he  hoped  to  be  able  to  obviate  the  very  possibility  of  further 
disappointment. 

"  A  murmur,  evidently  of  dissatisfaction,  was  the  only 
response  :  and  thus  ended  the  '  first  act,'  if  not  of  the  new 
play,  at  least  of  the  kindred  drama  of  '  The  Author's 
Benefit.' 

"  If  the  '  evil  genius'  that  had,  almost  from  my  childhood, 
dogged  my  footsteps,  baffled  my  energies,  and  thwarted  all 
my  better  purposes,  was  still,  as  it  would  seem,  resolved  to 
exercise  its  sinister  influence  in  my  affairs,  it  was  evident 
that  the  energy  of  my  new  colleague,  the  manager,  would 
give  it  something  to  do.  True  to  his  late  promise,  the  bills 
soon  again  announced  the  Jluthor's  Benefit  in  imposing 
form,  with  the  additional,  and  highly  important  announce- 
ment, that  the  principal  character  was  to  be  sustained  by 

Mr.  ,  a  new  theatrical  star  whose  effulgence  had 

lately  burst  upon  and  dazzled  an  astonished  and  admiring 
world. 

"  From  all  this  you  will  perhaps  conclude  that  if  the  evil 
genius  aforesaid,  had  had  any  agency  in  making  the  man, 
who  should  have  appeared  on  the  former  occasion,  '  wnca- 
pable,'  its  geniusship  had  proved  itself  as  shortsighted  in  its 
malignity  as  if  it  had  been  an  ordinary  mortal ;  as  the  cir- 
cumstance had  only  the  effect  of  removing  an  ordinary 
performer,  to  have  his  place  supplied  by  one  who  brought  to 
the  task  all  the  talent  and  eclat  of  a  distinguished  master. 
Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  such  were  the  promising,  nay 


248  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

even  highly  imposing  auspices  under  which  my  second  bene- 
fit, or  rathei  the  second  section  of  my  benefit,  was  ushered 
in. 

"  With  the  view  of  having  a  quiet  and  uninterrupted 
opportunity  of  observing  the  general  effect  of  ray  own  handi- 
work, and  especially  of  discovering  now  near  the  perform- 
ers would  come  to  the  realization  of  my  own  conceptions  of 
the  respective  characters,  I  made  my  way,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, to  a  box  opposite  the  stage,  and  took  my  seat  close 
beside  a  genteel  and  intellectual-looking  man,  when  the 
commencement  of  the  play  at  once  attracted  all  my  atten- 
tion. 

"  The  early  part  of  the  performance,  which,  of  course, 
was  merely  preliminary,  passed  off  pleasantly  and  popularly 
enough,  but  on  the  *  first  appearance'  of  the  strange  actor, 
I  was  astonished  to  find  that  the  applause  which  greeted 
his  advent  was  mingled,  or  rather  accompanied,  with  unmis- 
takable manifestations  of  a  very  different  character. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  mutterd  to  myself, 
but  loud  enough,  it  would  seem,  to  be  heard  by  my  quiet 
neighbor,  who  replied  by  asking  me  if  I  had  not  been  pre- 
pared for  something  of  this  sort. 

"  I  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  '  Then  you  have  not  read  this  morning's ?' 

"  I  had  merely  glanced  over  a  portion  of  its  columns, 
but  had  not  had  leisure  to  read  it  with  any  attention. 

"  (  You  are  not  then  aware,'  continued  my  new  acquaint- 
ance, '  that  this  strange  actor  is  accused  of  having,  on  a 
lertain  occasion,  offered  a  wanton  and  public  insult  to  OUT 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  249 

sountry  ;*  and  that  consequently  his  sojourn  amongst  up  ia 
not  likely  to  he  either  a  pleasant  or  a  profitable  one.  For 
my  own  part,  I  must  confess  myself  one  of  that  unpopular 
class,  known  as  lovers  of  law  and  order,  and  would,  at  pre- 
sent, much  rather  be  allowed  to  enjoy  the  play,  in  which  I 
feel  already  interested,  than  witness  any  insult  to  the 
National  Honor  avenged  on  such  an  occasion,  and  in  such 
a  manner,  as  this.' 

"  There  was  no  time  for  further  comment.  Every  portion 
2»f  the  densely  crowded  house  was  now  in  one  tremendous 
uproar :  one  party  going  for  the  play  and  the  player,  and  the 
other  (the  more  formidable  and  reckless,  if  not  the  more 
numerous  one)  equally  intent  to  cut  short  the  career  of 
both.- 

"  As  I  have  neither  leisure,  inclination,  nor  ability  to 
give  even  a  faint  description  of  the  scene  that  ensued,  I 
shall  substitute  for  the  attempt,  one,  or  rather  both,  of  the 
somewhat  trite,  but  still  serviceable  phrases,  which  the 


*  As,  in  this  age  of  literary  scepticism,  there  might  be  found  some  even  of  so 
"little  faith"  as  to  doubt  the  authenticity  of  "The  Author's  Benefit,"  and  to  regard 
it  rather  as  a  clumsily-concocted  romance,  than  as  a  simple  and  genuine  sample  of 
auto-biography,  narrated,  as  itself  declares,  for  the  temporary  amusement  of  a 
friend,  and  afterwards  committed  to  writing,  at  his  request  :  and  as  such  "unbe- 
lievers," in  attempting  to  sustain  their  imputations  by  "internal  evidence,"  would 
be  likely  to  point  to  the  circumstances  detailed  in  this  part  of  the  narrative  as 
bearing  too  striking  a  resemblance  to  those  connected  with  the  tragedy  of  Aslor 
Place,  for  mere  coincidence  ;  I  therefore  most  solemnly  declare,  that,  so  far  from 
such  resemblance,  which  I  readily  admit,  being  entitled  to  any  weight  as  an  evi- 
donee  against  the  genuineness  of  the  whole,  the  work,  if  I  may  so  dignify  it,  was  in 
manuscript,  with  those  incidents  which  are  now  resemblances  included,  at  least 
lighteeu  months  before  the  unfortunate  event  that  made  them  such  occurred. 

The  dutknr 


250  THE     AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

1  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  '  has  left  for  '  such  case  made  and 
provided' — namely,  that  the  scene  in  question  is  '  much 
more  easily  imagined  than  described ;'  and  '  to  be  duly 
appreciated  must  have  been  really  seen.' 

"  You  will  now  perceive  what,  as  an  old  dramatist,  I  did 
riot  choose  to  put  you  in  possession  of,  by  an  undramatic 
anticipation — namely,  that  in  '  standin'  trait,'  and  in  the 
transfer  or  substitution  thereby  effected,  my  '  familiar' 
spirit,  as  I  may  well  call  it,  had  in  no  degree  invalidated 
its  claim  to  be  considered  a  'cute  genius'  as  well  as  an 
'  evil'  one.  Its  (for  a  time)  '  hidden  purpose'  in  that  trans- 
action is  now,  I  think,  sufficiently  apparent. 

"As  might  have  been  expected  of  a  person  so  well 
accustomed  to  failure  and  disappointment,  I  was  now  pretty 
thoroughly  convinced,  that  whatever  notoriety,  or,  if  you 
please,  immortality,  I  might  have  derived  from  my  Benefit, 
it  was  likely  to  be  a  misnomer  in  the  general  and  most 
important  acceptation  of  the  term.  I  had,  moreover, 
learned  with  astonishment,  but  from  a  source  whose  purity 
I  had  no  reason  to  doubt,  that  the  foundation  upon  which  I 
had  lately  erected  my  hopes  of  pecuniary  salvation  was, 
unless  on  the  very  surface,  a  mere  'bed  of  sand  :'  in  other 
words  that  my  friend  and  patron,  the  manager,  though 
popular  and  plausible  in  his  manners,  had  hitherto  so 
'  managed  matters'  that  all  the  advantages  of  every  specu- 
lation in  which  he  engaged,  had  uniformly  accrued  to  him- 
self; and  all  the  disadvantages  as  uniformly  to  his  less 
fortunate  colleagues. 

"  The  pressure  of  necessity,  almost  the  only  motive  power 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  251 

that  could  ever  give  me  either  energy  or  alacrity,  and  aided, 
as  it  now  was,  by  the  torture  of  suspense,  impelled  me  to 
seek  an  immediate  interview  with  his  Managerial  Highness, 
and  to  come  to  a  fair,  or  even  an  unfair  understanding 
with  him  at  once.  And  having  obtained  the  desired  oppor- 
tunity, I  began  by  declaring  my  entire  conviction  that  the 
difficulties  that  had  hitherto  surrounded  our  connection  were 
entirely  owing  to  the  visible  ill-luck  that  had,  with  scarcely 
an  interval,  haunted  myself  and  my  affairs  from  my  child- 
hood till  the  present  hour ;  and  that  such  being  my  convic- 
tion (a  conviction  sustained  alike  by  former  experience  and 
recent  occurrences),  I  could  not,  in  honor  or  justice,  persist 
in  involving  a  more  fortunate  patron,  who  had  endeavored  to 
serve  me,  in  consequences  which,  I  was  aware,  had  their 
root  in  my  own  sinister  and  mysterious  destiny. — That  the 
early  success  of  the  piece  was,  at  least,  presumptive  evi- 
dence that,  so  soon  as  my  immediate  or  pecuniary  interest 
should  cease  to  be  involved,  the  ordinary  tide  of  fortune, 
which  had  been  temporarily  affected  by  such  interest,  would 
return  to  its  accustomed  channels,  and  to  the  ordinary  per- 
formance of  its  natural  ebbs  and  flows. — That  I  was,  there- 
fore, come  to  '  renounce  forever'  all  further  interest  (pecu- 
niary, of  course)  in  the  affair ;  and  that  for  such  renun- 
ciation I  was  willing  to  accept  the  nett  proceeds  of  the 
house,  on  either  of  the  evenings  which  had  been  set  apart 
for  my  benefit. 

"  Of  this  not  apparently  unreasonable  proposal,  however, 
the  manager  did  not  at  all  approve,  though  there  was  nothing 
\n  such  disapproval  that  appeared  either  unreasonable  in 


252  THE     AUTHOR      S     BENEFIT. 

itself  or  uncomplimentary,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  The 
'  Author's  Benefit,'  he  was  resolved,  should  have,  at  least, 
another  chance.  Its  abandonment  at  such  a  point,  and 
under  such  circumstances,  would,  he  argued,  be  as  undig- 
nified as  injudicious,  and  altogether  such  a  concession  to  the 
threats  of  a  *  cloudy  morning'  as  he  was  neither  accus- 
tomed nor  disposed  to  make.  Moreover,  the  adoption  of 
such  a  course  would,  he  insisted,  be  especially  unjust  to  me, 
so  far  as  my  literary  reputation  was  concerned.  My  friends 
had  never  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  judging  of  -my  produc- 
tion, and  as  nothing  but  the  fact  of  the  pecuniary  interest 
of  their  friend  being  involved  could  ever  bring  them  out  in 
such  numbers  as  they  had  before  congregated  in,  they  would 
never  have  such  an  opportunity  as  would  be  afforded  by 
another  benefit.  Furthermore,  the  slander  or  misconcep- 
tion which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  late  disturbance  had 
been  fully  and  satisfactorily  explained,  and  those  very  per- 
sons who  took  a  lead  in  that  disgraceful  affair  were  now 
most  anxious  for  an  opportunity  of  obliterating  the  recol- 
lection of  the  part  they  had  acted,  by  rushing  into  the  op- 
posite extreme.  So  that  the  piece  would  still  have  the 
advantage  of  the  distinguished  talents  of  which  it  was  so 
likely  to  be  deprived. 

"  The  '  manifest  destiny'  apprehension  upon  which  I  had 
mainly  rested  for  a  justification  of  my  intended  course,  he 
absolutely  laughed  to  scorn ;  declaring  his  perfect  willing- 
ness to  incur  his  share  of  the  consequences,  though  my 
ministering  angel '  should  do  its  worst.  In  short,  he  was 
resolved  that  my  adjourned  benefit  should  be  immediately 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  253 

announced ;  and  as  I  had  no  plausible  ground  for  further 
objection,  announced  it  was. 

"  I  recollect  having  once  met  a  very  worthy  clergyman,  at 
the  house  of  a  widow  whose  first  husband  had  been  shot 
dead  by  robbers  at  her  side,  in  the  bridal  chamber,  during 
the  honeymoon,  whose  second,  scarcely  two  years  after- 
wards, had  broken  his  neck  by  a  fall  down  stairs  ;  and  the 
question  having  arisen  as  to  the  probable  fate  of  the  third 
(for  she  was  still  young,  handsome,  and  comparatively  rich, 
and  therefore  not  likely  to  be  a  widow  long),  the  clerical 
opinion  was,  that,  as  the  third  time  was  the  charm,  the 
natural,  or  rather  supernatural^  conclusion  would  '  consign 
him  to  the  gallows.' 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  do  the  motives  ot  any,  but  more  espe- 
cially those  of  my  own  friends,  the  slightest  injustice  ;  but 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  latter  had  already  acquitted,  nay, 
more  than  acquitted,  themselves  honorably  as  to  any  claim 
that  I  could  have  had  upon  them,  I  cannot  even  yet  wholly 
banish  the  suspicion  that  it  must  have  been  some  such  pre- 
sentiment as  the  foregoing,  in  regard  to  the  final  result  of 
this  my  third  attempt  to  wrest  fame  and  fortune  from  the 
grasp  of  Fate,  that  could  again  bring  them  out,  as  they  did 
come,  in  even  more  overwhelming  numbers  than  on  either 
of  the  former  occasions.  And  as  to  the  general  public,  all 
the  anticipations  of  my  far-seeing  colleague  seemed  even 
more  than  realized.  The  house,  as  I  have  just  intimated, 
was  not  only  crowded  to  an  uncomfortable  and  even  danger- 
ous excess,  but  hundreds,  as  I  was  told,  had  to  go  away 
without  being  able  to  gain  admittance  on  any  terms.  The 


254  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

reception  of  the  formerly  obnoxious  actor  proved  that  the 
reaction  upon  which  the  manager  had  calculated  was  not 
only  extensive  but  complete  ;  and  as,  little  to  the  credit  of 
human  nature,  men  are  generally  more  ready  to  respond  to 
the  new-born  admiration  of  converted  opponents  than  to  re- 
ward the  tried  fidelity  of  older  friends,  the  personage  in  ques- 
tion seemed  to  outdo  himself,  or  at  least  to  soar  far  above 
even  the  most  extravagant  anticipations  that  had  already 
been  formed  of  his  talents  as  an  almost  unrivalled  artist. 

"  The  piece  had  reached  the  crisis  of  development,  and 
the  excitement,  of  course,  was  at  its  highest  pitch,  when, 
preceded  by  a  slight  but  perceptible  disorder  on  the  stage, 
the  appalling  word  '  Fire  /'  fell  upon  our  ears,  with  all  its 
terrible  significance.  The  scene  that  followed  I  leave  to 
your  own  imagination  ;  and  if  it  can  vividly  depict  the  state 
of  things  that  might  be  naturally  supposed  to  occur,  if,  by 
some  powerful  intercession  or  special  act  of  Divine  grace 
and  mercy,  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  lower  regions  were 
allowed  one  minute,  and  no  more,  to  escape  from  their 
hitherto  hopeless  captivity,  by  two  or  three  narrow  and 
difficult  points  of  egress,  you  may  come  near  realizing  '  a 
scene  in  a  theatre,'  such  as  the  most  incessant  and  enthu- 
siastic play-goer  had,  perhaps,  never  witnessed  before. 

"  With  the  most  horrifying  sights  and  sounds  stunning 
my  already  half-stupified  senses,  I  was  borne  in  the  direc- 
tion of  one  of  the  doors,  where,  for  a  time,  I  believe,  I 
struggled  as  desperately  as  the  best ;  but  an  overwhelming 
wave  of  the  maddened  multitude  pressing  on  from  the  rear, 
I  experienced  a  crushing  sensation,  such  as  might  have  been 


THE    AUTHOR'S   BENEFIT.  255 

produced  by  some  powerful  machinery,  and  then,  no  doubt 
much  to  my  immediate  ease  and  comfort,  lost  consciousness 
altogether. 

"  When  I  recovered  my  senses,  I  found  that  I  was  again 
within  the  classical  retreat  that  had  Avitnessed,  in  my  re- 
gard, the  early  coyness  and  subsequent  condescensions  of 
the  dramatic  muse.  I  had,  perhaps  fortunately,  still  re- 
tained possession  of  it,  though  for  some  weeks  past  a  sojour- 
ner  at  one  of  the  fashionable  hotels,  the  proprietor  of  which 
had,  as  Pecksniff  would  say,  very  naturally  failed  to  re- 
cognize me  when  presented  in  the  forlorn  condition  in  which 
I  had  been  picked  up  in  the  street.  And  hence,  to  borrow 
the  language  of  commerce,  I  was  '  still  to  be  found  at  the 
old  stand.' 

"  I  had,  it  appeared,  been  recognized  by  some  '  friends  of 
the  stiff,'*  who,  in  the  confusion,  had  providentially  stum- 
bled upon  me  as  I  lay  in  the  gutter,  nearly  naked,  entirely 
insensible,  and  apparently  dead.  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  such  is 
the  instability  of  human  greatness !  In  such  deserted  and 
inglorious  condition  was  I  found  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
my  recent  triumphs  ;  nay,  upon  a  spot  to  which  I  must  cer- 
tainly have  been  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  shouting 
multitude  ! 

"  In  perfect  accordance  with,  and  confirmation  of,  my 
theory,  that  I  was  another  Tineman,  upon  a  small  scale, 
and  that  the  blows  that  had,  of  late,  so  mysteriously  fallen 
upon  those  by  whom  I  was  surrounded  had  been  covertly 

•  The  phrase  applied  by  the  elder  Free,  in  his  official  communications,  tc  denoU 
the  nearest  of  kin  or  connexion  to  the  deceased. 


256  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

aimed  at  myself,  I  learned  that,  of  the  sufferers  by  the  late 
catastrophe,  I  had  the  honor  of  being  the  chief.  By  a  dis- 
pensation which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  as  miracu- 
lous as  it  was  merciful,  no  one,  save  myself,  had  sustained 
serious  injury.  I  did,  it  is  true,  hear  of  one  old  lady  who 
pertinaciously  clung  to  the  idea  that  she  had  been  trampled 
to  death;  but  as  her  case  presented  none  of  the  usual 
symptoms  of  such  a  fate,  and  as  the  medical  authority 
was  moreover  decidedly  against  her,  she  secured  but  few 
adherents  to  her  opinion,  and  was  compelled  to  retire,  in 
disgust,  to  her  former  home,  where  she  was  said  to  have 
made  a  desperate  but  ineffectual  attempt  to  terminate  an 
existence,  thus  unnaturally  forced  upon  her,  by  swallowing  a 
strong  dose  of  warm  brandy  and  oysters. 

"  To  say  that  the  fire  at  the  theatre  had  ended,  as  it 
began,  in  smoke,  would  be  claiming  for  it  no  exemption 
from  the  ordinary  fate  of  fires,  as  most,  if  not  all,  others  do 
the  same  ;  but  it  had  differed  from  the  generality  of  its 
class  in  the  somewhat  important  particular  of  having  at 
no  time  emitted  any  fiercer  or  more  destructive  property. 
So  that  the  manager,  with  his  usual  good  fortune,  had 
escaped  comparatively  scathless ;  a  circumstance  at  which 
I  heartily  rejoiced,  not  more  for  his  sake  than  my  own ;  as 
he  had,  therefore,  no  pretext,  if  he  should  chance  to  desire 
one,  for  withholding  at  least  a  portion  oi  the  proceeds  of  the 
strange,  strangely-protracted,  and  strangely-terminating 
Benefit,  which,  with  all  its  strangeness,  had,  undoubtedly, 
produced  sufficient  to  benefit  somebody.  Who  that  fortu- 
nate somebody  was  eventually  to  be,  was  now  the  question , 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  257 

and  a  question  which  the  temper  exhibited  by  certain  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  lately  honored  me  with  a  succession 
of  calls,  was  likely  to  bring  to  a  somewhat  immediate 
issue. 

"  As  I  think  your  interest  in  the  whole  affair  must,  by 
this  time,  be  pretty  well  '  used  up,'  I  will  not  trouble  you 
with  a  particular  account  of  the  number  and  variety  of  my 
attempts  to  impress  upon  my  late  colleague  the  unequivocal 
justness  of  my  claims,  and  what  was  still  more  important, 
to  inspire  him  with  a  disposition  to  settle  them.  Let  it 
suffice  to  say,  that  they  were  all  entirely  fruitless.  Indeed 
it  would  appear  that,  as  his  special  mission  was  to  manage 
others,  he  had,  to  prevent  mistakes,  been  endowed  with  the 
prerogative  of  being  entirely  wrananageable  himself. 

"  He  did  not,  however,  go  so  far  as  to  absolutely  deny 
that  I  had  claims ;  but  that  he  also  had  claims  must  not  be 
forgotten.  He  had  had  losses  too,  for  which  he  must  be 
indemnified,  in  the  first  place,  and  as  the  extent  of  those 
losses  could  not  yet  be  ascertained,  I  must  rest  contented, 
at  least,  for  the  present. 

"  With  the  truthfulness  of  his  intimation  that  the  extent 
of  his  losses  in  the  transaction  was  somewhat  hard  to 
ascertain,  I  was  perfectly  satisfied.  But  the  resting  con- 
tented was  not  quite  so  easily  '  realized,'  with  my  house, 
which  should  have  been  my  castle,  at  least  two-thirds  of 
the  day  in  the  undisputed  occupation  of  my  creditors. 

"  '  Howsever,'  as  an  old  friend  of  mine  used  to  say,  at 
the  end  of  some  five  or  six  weeks  after  the  fire,  and  like  a 
patient  and  discreet,  but  withal  dignified  plenipotentiary 


258  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

who  has  vainly  exhausted  every  legitimate  means  to  obtain 
a  peaceful  recognition  of  his  country's  claims,  I  brought  the 
fruitless  negotiation  to  a  close,  by  formally  demanding — 
not  my  passports,  but  what  in  my  case  was  perfectly  identi- 
cal— my  Manuscript. 

"  The  bearer  of  this,  my  last  diplomatic  note,  returned 
with  an  intimation  that  the  great  man  would  himself  call 
upon  me  in  the  course  of  an  hour  ;  and  to  this  one  promise 
he  was  faithful. 

"  At  about  the  termination  of  the  stipulated  period,  a 
rap  which  told  of  offended  dignity  as  plainly  as  a  rap 
could,  raised  me  from  a  sort  of  half-slumber,  half-reverie,  to 
which  I  was  then  subject ;  and  on  my  uttering  the  words, 
'  Come  in,'  the  manager,  more  richly  dressed,  and  alto- 
gether more  dignified  and  imposing  in  his  appearance  than 
I  had  ever  before  seen  him,  entered  the  room.  To  my 
offer  of  a  seat  he  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  ;  but  broke 
in  by  remarking  that  he  had  had  the  honor  of  receiving  a 
note  from  me. 

"  Yes,  I  had  taken  the  liberty  of  writing  for  the  purpose 
of  recovering  my  manuscript. 

"  '  There  it  is,  then  !'  he  rejoined,  flinging,  as  he  spoke, 
a  package,  which  I  had  not  till  then  observed,  directly  in 
my  face,  and  after  regarding  myself  and  my  humble  resi- 
dence with  a  momentary  but  deliberate  look  of  the  most 
withering  contempt,  turned  towards  the  door,  which,  from 
the  very  limited  dimensions  of  the  apartment,  was,  of 
course,  not  far  distant. 

"  But  near  as  it  was,  he  was  not  destined  to  reach  it  in 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  259 

safety  and  in  triumph.  Stung  to  absolute  madness,  by  tbe 
first  gross  insult  that  I  had  ever  received,  and  that,  too, 
offered  by  one  who  had  already  so  deeply  wronged  me,  I 
seized  a  heavy  walking-stick  which  I  had  used  since  my 
accident,  and  which  therefore  lay  on  the  table  before  me, 
and  with  one  blow  brought  the  strong  and  proud  man  pros- 
trate and  bleeding  to  the  floor.  But  no  wonder  that  that 
blow  told  :  it  was  the  expression — the  embodiment — of  the 
indignation  and  revenge  of  a  spirit  long  irritated,  and  now 
wantonly  outraged. 

"  I  am  confident  that,  even  in  my  frenzy,  I  did  not  repeat 
the  blow,  and  when  my  excitement  had  sufficiently  passed 
away  to  allow  me  to  contemplate  the  effects  of  my  unwonted 
fury,  I  saw  that  my  enemy  was  still  prostrate  and  motion- 
less. At  first  I  did  not  feel  any  great  apprehensions  as 
to  the  consequences,  knowing,  as  I  did,  that  he  was  an 
extremely  strong,  robust,  and  healthy  man,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  and  had  received  but  one  blow  of  an  ordinary-sized 
stick,  wielded  by  an  arm  that  had  never  been  a  strong  one. 
But  when  eventually  becoming  alarmed  at  the  length  and 
unbroken  stillness  of  his  swoon,  I  stooped  down  to  examine 
his  condition  more  closely,  I  found  that,  though  there  was 
still  something  like  warmth  in  the  vicinity  of  the  heart,  the 
extremities  were  cold  and  pulseless,  nay  already  stiffening — 
that — Father  of  Mercy — he  was  dead  ! — 

Distracted  as  I  was,  I  had  presence  of  mind  sufficient  to 
induce  me  to  take  my  hat,  and  to  put  the  few  shillings  I 
possessed  in  my  pocket ;  and  I  had  also  the  courage  to  tell 
the  nearest  apothecary,  with  what  degree  of  composure  I 


260  THE      AUTHOR'S      BENEFIT. 

know  not,  that  an  accident  had  occurred  at  No. st. 

where  his  services  might  be  required. 

"  My  wisest  course  would  now  have  been  to  deliver 
myself  up  at  once  to  the  proper  authorities,  and  declare  the 
truth,  which  both  the  appearance  of  the  room  and  of  the 
deceased,  as  well  as  what  was  known  of  both  our  characters, 
would  have  strongly  corroborated :  and  as  there  had  been 
but  one  bloAV  struck,  and  that  in  the  heat  of  passion,  and 
under  strong  provocation,  my  punishment  might  have  been 
a  comparatively  light  one.  But  though  the  propriety  of 
such  a  course  may  possibly  have  presented  itself  to  my  dis- 
tracted and  terrified  imagination,  it  could  have  no  effect ;  as 
Flight — Flight — and  Distance  from  that  fatal  room  and  its 
silent  inhabitant,  were  the  absorbing  ideas  of  my  mind  and 
the  sole  impulses  of  my  actions.  And  so  powerfully  and 
rapidly  did  they  impel  me,  that,  without  other  agency  than 
that  of  my  own  weak  limbs,  unnerved,  as  they  were,  by 
recent  illness,  and  still  more  recent  and  exhausting  excite- 
ment, before  that  fatal  day  had  terminated  in  midnight,  I 
was  at  least  forty  miles  both  from  my  victim  and  the  scene 
of  his  sacrifice.  And  it  was  now,  in  the  deep  solitude  of  the 
dark  forest,  and  in  the  unbroken  stillness  of  midnight,  that 
I  had  first  leisure  and  power  to  compute  the  full  advanta- 
ges which  I  had  actually  derived  from  my  Benefit  ;  and  the 
results  of  my  calculation  were — Bankrupt,  Fugitation 
and  Murder,  in  possession ;  and  in  reversion,  or  prospect, 
the  Gallows  and  a  Dishonored  Grave ! 

"  Having  thus,  as  I  trust,  convinced  you,  that  my  con- 
nection with  the  stage  was  somewhat  more  interesting  than 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  261 

advantageous,  and  that  I  have  no  great  reason  to  anticipate 
any  very  brilliant  results  from  a  renewal  of  it,  I  would  now 
dismiss  the  subject  with,  as  the  orators  say,  '  returning  you 
my  most  sincere  thanks  for  the  patience  with  which  you 
have  heard  me  throughout.'  But  as  you  may,  perhaps,  be 
still  somewhat  curious  to  know  how  it  is  that  I  am  again  in 
the  same  city  where  I  was  the  agent  in  so  terrible  and 
tragical  an  occurrence,  and  free,  and  even  apparently  will- 
ing to  avow  the  act,  I  will,  with  your  permission,  endeavor 
to  account  for  the  circumstance,  in  as  few  additional  words 
as  possible. 

"  Know  then,  that,  after  a  pilgrimage  of  some  weeks, 
eleven  successive  nights  of  which  I  had  passed  under  '  the 
blue  vault  of  heaven,'  which,  both  for  my  own  sake  and  that 
of  Poetry,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  did  not  always  look  so  blue  as 
I  sometimes  did  myself,  under  its  influence,*  I  came  to  a 
place  in  what  was  then  the  western  wilderness,  where  some 
hundreds  of  men  were  engaged  in  digging  a  canal.  By  a 
singular  coincidence  certainly,  the  contractor  to  whom  I 
applied  for  employment  chanced  to  be  an  old  friend  and 
even  a  distant  relative  of  my  own.  And  despite  the  dis- 
guise that  I  had  intentionally  assumed,  powerfully  aided  as 

*  In  addition  to  some  two  or  th-ee  ordinary  thunder-storms,  I  had,  during  this 
more  interesting  than  altogether  t^reealle  portion  of  my  experience,  not  merely 
the  privilege  of  beholding,  but  the  honor  of  encountering  one  of  those  magnificent 
outbursts  of '  natural  temper'  called  Tornadoes,  which,  in  my  own  presence,  and  in 
a  moment,  reversed  the  position  of  the  largest  trees,  and,  as  I  was  told,  in  the 
neighboring  valleys  brought  navigation  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  and  con 
venience,  in  a  few  hours,  as  enabled  the  denizens  of  the  favored  region  to  embark 
from  their  sleeping-room  windows,  and,  in  some  instances,  from  their  very  l>wl 
«ides ! 


262  THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

it  was  by  the  effects  of  the  trials  through  which  I  had 
recently  passed,  he  knew  me  at  once.  And  when,  in  very 
natural  and  unfeigned  surprise,  he  asked  me  what,  in  the 
name  of  Misfortune,  could  have  brought  me  there,  and  in 
such  a  plight,  as  I  was  never  a  good  hand  at  a  lie,  and  as  1 
had  moreover  full  faith  in  his  friendship  and  honor,  I,  with- 
out hesitation,  confessed  to  him  the  whole  truth. 

"  I  will  not,  of  course,  in  what  was  to  be  but  a  sort  of 
verbal  postscript,  inflict  upon  you  a  treatise  on  the  pleasures 
of  canal-digging  in  the  wilderness,  but  will  let  it  suffice  to 
say,  that  both  my  employer  and  co-laborers  (for  which  may 
God  bless  them  !)  did  all  Avithin  their  power  to  render  it  to 
me,  forlorn  fugitive  that  I  was,  as  endurable  as  possible. 

"  I  had,  I  should  suppose,  been  some  three  weeks  labor- 
ing in  my  new  vocation,  when  I  was  one  night,  at  a  late 
hour,  aroused  from  a  troubled  sleep  to  learn  that  the  gen- 
eral wished  to  see  me  immediately,  in  his  own  tent. 

"  That  my  retreat  had  been  discovered  was  the  only 
natural  conclusion,  and  if  escape  were  still  possible,  my 
present  '  city  of  refuge,'  humble  and  unenviable  as  it  cer- 
tainly was,  must  be  exchanged  for  a  state  of  much  greater 
precariousness  and  still  more  utter  desolation.  By  the 
time,  however,  that  I  had  reached  my  immediate  destina- 
tion, I  had  regained  my  wonted  composure,  and  was  pretty 
well  prepared  to  encounter  the  very  worst.  At  all  events, 
I  was  not  in  hands  to  trifle  with  my  suspense,  and  soon 
learned  the  cause  of  the  unwonted  summons.  A  son  of  my 
friend  and  employer  had  just  arrived  from  the  seaboard, 
and  had  brought  him  a  number  of  newspapers,  in  one  of 


THE    AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT.  2b'3 

which  he  had  accidentally  discovered  a  paragraph  which  he 
believed  of  sufficient  interest  to  me  to  justify  an  invasion  of 
my  repose.  He  pointed  it  out,  and  it  read  nearly  as  follows-: 

"  '  UNPARALLELED  BASENESS. — Our  readers  need  not  be  informed 
that,  some  six  weeks  ago,  that  emperor  of  dramatic  purveyors, ,  nar- 
rowly escaped  falling  a  sacrifice  to  the  fury  of  one  of  his  bards ;  but  they 
may  not  be  aware  that  when  it  was  discovered  that  the  vital  spark  was 
not  wholly  extinguished,  he  was,  for  the  sake  of  greater  convenience, 

removed  to  the  hospitable  residence  of  his  friend  Mr. ,  where  his 

wants  and  wishes  were  not  only  anticipated  by  the  numerous  and  well- 
qualified  officials  of  that  magnificent  establishment,  but  where  his 
recovery  was  facilitated  by  the  active  and  unwearied  superintendence 
of  certain  members  of  the  family  :  and  of  a  surety,  it  will  be  news  to 
most  of  them  (and  news  that  they  will  scarcely  be  willing  to  credit) 
when  they  learn  that  the  author  of  such  munificent  hospitality  has 
been  rewarded  by  the  recipient  with  the  seduction  of  his  beautiful, 
highly  accomplished,  and  hitherto  amiable  and  virtuous  wife.  Such, 
however,  is  undoubtedly  the  fact.  The  guilty  couple  departed  for 
Europe  in  the  Havre  packet  of  Saturday,  and  the  most  unfortunate  and 
deeply  -injured  husband  is  to  embark  for  London  at  noon  to-day. 

"  '  As  our  paper  is  just  going  to  press,  we  have  neither  room  nor 
leisure  for  comment,  but  will  return  to  the  subject  tomorrow.' 

"  The  state  of  my  feelings,  after  perusing  the  foregoing, 
would  furnish  an  important  proof,  if  proof  were  wanting,  of 
how  completely  circumstances  can  alter  cases.  Almost 
from  my  very  childhood  I  had  regarded  gross  breaches  of 
confidence  and  hospitality  as  the  most  unmitigated  indignity 
that  could  be  offered  either  to  God  or  to  Society  ;  and  now 
an  absolute  devil,  nay  the  very  fiend  whose  special  mission 
it  was  to  suggest  and  mature  the  whole  transaction,  could 
not  have  gloated  over  that  paragraph  (the  formal  record  of 
his  own  success)  with  such  unmingled  ecstasy  as  I  did. 


264  THE   AUTHOR'S    BENEFIT. 

And.  is  there  any  one  so  stupidly  insensible  as  to  wonder 
that  such  should  be  the  case  1  Whatever  might  be  the 
extent  of  my  future  misfortunes,  and  certainly  my  pros- 
pects were  none  of  the  brightest,  the  brand  of  Cain  was 
at  least  removed,  and  I  might  again  turn  my  footsteps 
towards  the  haunts  of  civilization,  and  look,  without  terror, 
upon  the  face  of  my  fellow-man." 

"  That  is  a  good  story,  Blank  :  at  least  too  good  to  be 
lost.  What  will  you  take  for  putting  it  into  manuscript  V 

"'The  honor  conferred  by  the  request  is  more  than  suffi- 
cient recompense.  It  shall  be  done." 

"  Nonsense,  man !  Do  as  I  tell  you,  and  you  shall  be 
paid  in  something  more  convertible  than  honor.  By  all 
accounts,  you  have  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  payment 
already." 

Wliether  the  request  was  merely  a  delicate  method  of 
offering  assistance,  or  was  made  with  the  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing me  to  the  notice  of  some  of  his  literary  friends,  I 
know  not,  and  am  not  likely  to  know.  Before  the  mission, 
trifling  as  it  was,  was  executed,  he  who  had  given  it  was 
not  in  the  way  either  to  explain  his  purposes  or  to  fulfil 
them.  He  was  no  more — at  least  in  America ;  and  as  he 
had  either  neglected  or  forgotten  to  mention  my  case  to 
those  who  were  competent  to  act  for  him,  the  manuscript  of 
"  The  Author's  Benefit"  might  have  shared  the  obscurity 
of  many  others  of  its  humble  and  unknown  kindred,  but 
for  what,  I  much  fear,  will  be  found  to  be  the  too  favorable 
opinion  of  the  distinguished  gentlemar.  under  whose  aus- 
pices it  is  now  given  to  the  public. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  61 1  221     3 


